mim 


'.^,    V: 


^-:-- 


m 


.  /\ 


t?^ 


jJ^i 


^ 


iWil^Sj 


.•■.•:I'.'-.-K> 


WiM 


/gfl 


<#• 


'\     X-vfxX  iw\>  W^v^ 


ov*-.'*i* '- 


k  t 


1> 


>^*  - 


,    ^     v-W-^v -V%S^v   -^^^ 


♦«^  T- 


.>.^N^vV*^   '^^^f'^"'^ 


POEMS, 


^3 


BY 

WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 

OF  THE  INNER  TEMPLE. 

3fn  t!)ree  t[Mumt^* 

COMPRISING 

c^     l/arieiu     of   <U^ieced 

NOT  INSERTED  IN  FORMER  EDITIONS, 

To  which  is  prefixed 

A  BRIEF  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  LIFE. 
VOL.  II. 


Sicut  aquse  tremulum  labris  nbi  lumen  ahcnis 
Sole  rtpertussum,  aut  radiantis  ima{?ine  lunee, 
Omnia  pervoHtat  late  loca,  jamque  sub  auras 
Erigitur,  summique  ferit  laquearia  tecti. 

VIRG.  .EN.  VJir. 
So  water,  trembling  in  a  polish'd  vase, 
Reflects  the  beam  that  plays  upon  its  face  ; 
The  sportive  light,  uncertain  where  it  falls. 
Now  strikes  the  roof,  now  flashes  on  the  walls. 


AMHERST,  N,  H. 

PRINTED      BY     JOSEPH     GUSHING. 

Sold  by  him  at  his  Bookstore  ;   by  Mannin,^  &  Loring  No,  5^ 

and  by  Lincoln  S:  Edmands,  No.  5o,  Cornhill,  Boston, 

180S. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  history  of  the  following  production  is 
briefly  this  :— A  lady,  fond  of  blank  verse,  de- 
manded a  poem  of  that  kind  from  the  Author, 
and  gave  him  the  sofa  for  a  subject.  He  obey- 
ed ;  and,  having  much  leisure,  connected  anoth- 
er subject  with  it  ;  and,  pursuing  the  train  of 
thought  to  which  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind 
led  him,  brought  forth,  at  length,  instead  of  the 
trifle,  which  he  at  first  intended,  a  serious  aflaiy 

—a  VOLUME  I 

In  the  Poem  on  the  subject  of  Education,  he 
would  be  very  sorry  to  stand  suspected  of  hav- 
ing aimed  his  censure  at  any  particular  school. 
His  objections  are  such  as  naturally  apply  theniv- 
selves  to  schools  in  general.  If  there  were  not, 
as  for  the  most  part  there  is,  wilful  neglect  in 
those  who  manage  them,  and  an  omission  even 
of  such  discipline  as  they  are  susceptible  of,  the 
objects  are  yet  too  numerous  for  minute  atten- 
tion ;  and  the  aching  hearts  of  ten  thousand 
parents,  mourning  under  the  bitterest  of  all  dis- 
appointments, attest  the  truth  of  the  allegation. 
His  quarrel,  therefore,  is  with  the  mischief  at 
large,  and  not  with  any  particular  instance  of  it.r 


CONTENTS. 

THE   TASK,  IN   SIX   BOOKS. 

Page. 
Book  u     The  Sofa ^ 

lu    The  Time-Piece      • 37 

III.  The  Garden 67 

IV.  The  Winter  Evening 97 

V.  The  Winter  Morning  Walk  .     .     .127 
vi.    The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon      .     .     159 

Tirocinium  ;  or,  a  Review  o£  Schools       .     •     195 

The  Doves 227 

A  Fable 228 

A  Comparison 230 

Verses  supposed    to    be  written    by    Alexander 

,  Selkirk,  during  his  solitary  abode  in  the  Island. 

of  Juan  Fernandez 231 

On  the  promotion  of  Edward  Thurlow,  Esq.  to 

the  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  England       •     233. 

Ode  to  Peace 234? 

Human  Frailty ,     .     235 

The  Modern  Patriot 23^ 

Report  of  an  adjudged  case  not  to  be  found    in 

any  of  the  books 238 

On  the  burning  of  Lord  Mansfield's  Library  21-0 
The  love  of  the  world  reproved,  or    Hypocrisy 

detected 241 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose 2kS 

TGL..  i-u  A  2. 


fl.  '  CONTENTS- 

Idem  Latine  Redditum    .......  244* 

The  Nightingale  and  Glow  Worm       .     .     .  246 

Votum 247 

On  a  Goldfinch  starved  to  death  in  his  cage    .  248 

The  Pine  Apple  and  Bee iild* 

Horace.     Book  ii.     Ode  x 250 

A  reflection  on  the  foregoing  Ode       .     .     .  251 

Translations  from  Vincent  Bourne        •     .     •  252 

The  Shrubbery       . 258 

Mutual  Forbearance    .,.....•  259 

The  Winter  Nosegay       .......  261 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton 262 

Translation  of  Prior's  Chloe  and  Eupheha     •  264^ 

Boadicea,     •     •     • ilfi^^ 

Heroism        «     • 266 

The  Poet,  the  Oyster,  and  Sensitive  Plant     .  270 

On  the  receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture    .     .  272: 


THE  TASK* 

A  POEM 
IK  SIX  BOOKS. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK. 

Historical  deduction  of  seats y  from  the  stool  to  the  Sofa,-^ 
A  school-boy^ s  ramble, — A  walk  in  the  country, — Tie 
^cene  described* — Rural  sounds  as  ivell  as  sights  delight- 
fuL — Another  walk. — Mistake  concerning  the  charms 
of  solitude  corrected. — Colonnades  commended,--^ Alcove^ 
and  the  'view  from  it. — The  wilderness. — The  grove. ^^ 
The  thresher. — The  necessity    and    benefits  of   exercise. 
"^The  works  of  nature  superior  tOy  and  in  some  instan^ 
ces  inimitable  by  art. — The    wearisomeness  of  what   is 
commonly  called  a  life   of  pleasure. ^'Change  of  scene 
sometimes  expedient.'-^A  common  described^  and  the  char-- 
acter  of  crazv  Kate  introduced. — Gipsies. -^The  bless '^ 
ings  of  civilized  life.^^hat  state   most  favourable  to 
virtue. — The  South  Sea  islanders  compassionated^   but 
chiefly  Omai. — His  present  state  of  mind  supposed.^ 
Civilized  life  friendly  to  virtue^  but  not  great  cities.. — 
Great  cities^  and  London    in  parti cular^  allowed  their 
due  praise y  but  censured. — Fete  champetre.^—The    book 
concludes  with  a  reflection  on  the  fatal  effects  of  dissipa-^ 
iion  and  effeminacy  upon  our  public  measures* 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  /. 


THE    SOFA. 

JL  SING  the  SOFA.     I,  who  lately  sang- 

Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,*  and  touch'd  with  awe 

The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a  trembling  hand, 

Escap'd  with  pain  from  that  adventurous  flight. 

Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme  ; 

The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 

Th*  occasion — ^for  the  fair  commands  the  song. 

Time  was,  when  clothing  sumptuous  or  for  use^ 
Save  their  own  painted  skins,  our  sires  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not ;  satin  smooth, 
Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile  :. 
The  hardy  chief  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Washed  by  the  sea,  or  on  tlie  grav'ly  bank 
Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud^ 


*  See  Poems,  Vol.  r. 


10  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  I> 


Fearless  of  wrong,  repos'd  his  weary  strength. 
Those  barbarous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 
The  birth  day  of  invention  ;  weak  at  first,' 
Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 
Joint-stools  were  then  created ;  on  three  legs 
Upborne  they  stood.     Three  legs  upholding  firnv 
A  massy  slab  in  fashion  square  or  round. 
On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 
And  sway'd  the  sceptre  of  his  infant  realms  f' 
And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 
May  still  be  seen  ;  but  perforated  sore, 
And  drill'd  in  holes,  the  solid  oak  is  found. 
By  worms  voracious  eating  through  and  through* 

At  length  a  generation  more  refin'd 
Improved  the  simple  plan  ;  made  three  legs  four. 
Gave  them  a  twisted  form  vermicular. 
And  o'er  the  seat,  with  plenteous  wadding  stufPd, 
Induc'd  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue. 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought 
And  w^oven  close,  or  needle-work  sublime. 
There  might  ye  see  the  piony  spread  wide, 
The  full-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lap-dog  and  lambkin  with  black  staring  eyes, 
And  parrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  the  cane  from  India,  smooth  and  bright 
With  nature's  varnish  ;  sever'd  into  stripes 
That  interlaced  each  other,  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  brac'd 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  a  chair,. 


BOOK  U  THE  SOFA.  H 

But  restless  was  the  chair ;  the  back  erect 
Pistrcss'd  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  easej 
The  slippery  seat  betrayM  the  shding  part 
That  press'd  it,  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anxious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  the  rich :  the  rest,  whom  fate  had  plac'd 
In  modest  mediocrity,  content 
With  base  materials,  sat  on  well  tann'd  hides, 
Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth. 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson  yarn, 
Or  scarlet  crewel,  in  the.  cushion  fix*d  ; 
If  cushion  might  be  call'd,  what  harder  seem'd 
Than  the  firm  oak  of  which  the  frame  was  form'4.' 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  fear*d 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.     The  umber  stood 
Ponderous  and  fix'd  by  its  own  massy  weight. 
But  elbows  still  were  wanting;    these,  some  say, 
An  alderman  of  Crippiegate  contriv'd  : 
And  some  ascribe  th'  invention  to  a  priest, 
Burly  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 
But,  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  press'd  against  the  ribs, 
And  bruis'd  the  side  ;  and,  elevated  high. 
Taught  the  raisM  shoulders  to  invade  the  ears. 
Long  time  elaps'd  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires  0. 

Complain*d,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 
And  ill  at  ease  behind.     The  ladies  first 
*Gan  murmur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 
Ingenious  fancy,  never  better  pleas'd, 


12  THE  TASX.  BOOK  U 

Than  when  employ'd  t'  accommodate  the  fair. 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  dcvis'd 
The  soft  settee  ;  one  elbow  at  each  end^ 
And  in  the  midst  an  elbow  it  receiv'd. 
United  yet  divided,  twain  at  once, 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne  ; 
And  so  two  citizens  who  take  the  air. 
Close  packed  and  smiling,  in  a  chaise  and  one. 
But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame. 
By  soft  recumbency  of  out-stretch'd  limbs, 
"Was  bliss  reserved  for  happier  days.     So  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent ;  so  hard 
T'  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world. 
Thus  first  necessity  invented  stools, 
Xl^onvenience  next  suggested  elbow  chairs* 
And  luxur)"  th*  accomplished  sofa  last. 

The  nurse  sleeps  sweetly,  hir'd  to  watch  the  sick^ 
"Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.     As  sweetly  he 
Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  the  midnight  hour 
To  sleep  within  the  carriage  more  secure. 
His  legs  depending  at  the  open  door. 
Sweet  sleep  enjoys  jthe  curate  in  his  desk. 
The  tedious  rector  drawling  o'er  his  head; 
And  sweet  the  clerk  below.     But  neither  sleep 
Of  lazy  nurse,  who  snores  the  sick  man  dead. 
Nor  his  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour 
To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure. 
Nor  sleep  enjoy'd  by  curate  in  his  desk, 
Nor  yet  the  dozings  of  the  clerk,  are  sweet, 


BOOK  I.  THE  SOFA.  13 

Compar'd  with  the  repose  the  sofa  yields. 

Oh  may  I  live  exempted  (while  I  live 

Guiltless  of  pamper'd  appetite  obscene) 

From  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe 

Of  libertine  excess.     The  sofa  suits 

The  gouty  limb,  'tis  true  ;   but  gouty  limb. 

Though  on  a  sofa,  may  I  never  feel  : 

For  I  have  lov'd  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 

Of  grassy  swarth,  close  cropt  by  nibbling  sheep, 

And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 

Of  thorny  boughs  ;  have  lov'd  the  rural  walk 

O'er  hills,  4:hrough  vallies.  and  by  rivers'  brink. 

Ere  since  a  truant  boy  I  pass'd  my  bounds 

T'  enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames; 

And  still  remember,  not  without  regret 

Of  hours  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endear'd. 

How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consumed. 

Still  hungering,  pennyless,  and  far  from  home,, 

i  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws. 

Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries  that  imboss 

The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 

Hard  fare  !  but  such  as  boyish  appetite 

Disdains  not ;  nor  the  palate,  undeprav'-d 

By  culinary  arts,  unsavoury  deems* 

No  sofa  then  awaited  my  return  ; 

Nor  SOFA  then  I  needed.     Youth  repairs 

His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 

Incurring  short  fatigue  ;  and,  though  our  years 

As  life  dechnes  speed  rapidly  away. 

And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes 

VOL.    II.  B 


14«  T>IE    TASK. 


BOOK  I* 


Soir.e  youthful  grace  that  age  would  gladly  keep  ; 

A  tooth  or  auburn  lock,  and  by  degrees 

Their  length  and  colour  from  the  locks  they  spare; 

Th'  elastic  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot 

That  mounts  the  slilc  with  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence, 

That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 

Respiring  freely  the  fresh  air  that  makes 

Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent  no  toil  to  me. 

Mine  have  not  pilfer'd  yet  ;  nor  yet  impaired 

My  relish  of  fair  prospect  ;  scenes  that  sooth'd 

Or  charm'd  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 

Still  soothing,  and  of  power  to  charm  me  stilL 

And  witness,  dear  companion  of  m.y  walks. 

Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive 

Fast  lock'd  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love^ 

Confirmed  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 

And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire — 

Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 

Thou  know'st  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere^ 

And  that  my  raptures  are  not  conjur'd  up 

To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp, 

But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 

How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 

Has  slacken'd  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 

The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew. 

While  admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye, 

And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 

Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discern'd 

The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 

His  labouring  team,  that  swerv'd  not  from  the  track, 


BOOK  r.  THE  SQFA.  15 

The  sturdy  swain  diminished  to  a  boy  I 
Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er, 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 
Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank> 
Stand,  never  overlookM,  our  favourite  elms. 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  sohtary  hut ; 
While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream^ 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale. 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds  j 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tower. 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear. 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoaldng  villages,  remote. 
Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which,  daily  view'd. 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  and  a  scrutiny  of  years. 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe. 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds. 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unHke 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  iill  the  mind ; 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods^  or  on  the  softer  voice 


16  THE    TASK.  BOOK    % 

Of  neighbouring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds, 
But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 
To  sooth  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night :  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 
Nice  finger'd  art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl. 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  reigns^ 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake* 

Peace  to  the  artist,  whose  ingenious  thought 
DevisM  the  weather-house,  that  useful  toy  ! 
Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gathering  rainsy 
Forth  steps  the  man — an  emblem  of  myself ! 
More  delicate,  his  timourous  mate  retires. 
When  winter  soaks  the  fields,  and  female  feet. 
Too  weak  to  struggle  with  tenacious  clay^ 
Or  ford  the  rivulets,  are  best  at  homey 
The  task  of  new  discoveries  falls  on  me. 
At  such  a  season,  and  with  such  a  charge, 
Once  went  I  forth  ;  and  found,  till  then  unknown, 
A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair  ; 


BOOK  I.  THE  SOFA.  17 

*Tis  percVd  upon  the  green-hill  top,  but  close 
Environ'd  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms 
That  overhang  the  thatch,  itself  unseen 
Peeps  at  the  vale  below  ;  so  thick  beset 
With  foHage  of  such  dark  redundant  growth, 
I  call'd  the  low-roof 'd  lodge  tliQ  J?easan(*s  nest. 
And,  hidden  as  it  is,  and  far  remote 
From  such  unpleasing  sounds  as  haunt  the  ear 
In  village  or  in  town,  the  bay  of  curs 
Incessant,  clinking  hammers,  grinding  wheels, 
And  infants,  clamourous,  whether  pleas'd  or  pain'd^ 
Oft  have  I  wish'd  the  peaceful  covert  mine. 
Here,  I  have  said,  at  least  I  should  possess 
The  poet^s  treasure,  silence,  and  indulge 
The  dreams  of  fancy,  tranquil  and  secure. 
Vain  thought !  the  dweller  in  that  still  retreat 
Dearly  obtains  the  refuge  it  affords* 
Its  elevated  site  forbids  the  wretch 
To  drink  sweet  waters  of  the  chrystal  well  j 
He  dips  his  bowl  into  the  weedy  ditch, 
And,  heavy  laden,  brings  his  beverage  home. 
Far  fetch'd  and  httle  worth :  nor  seldom  waits> 
Dependant  on  the  baker's  punctual  call, 
To  hear  his  creaking  paniers  at  the  door, 
Angry  and  sad,  and  his  last  crust  consumed* 
So  farewel  envy  of  the  peasant's  nest  I 
If  solitude  make  scant  the  means  of  life^ 
Society  for  me  !  — thou  seeming  sweet, 
Be  still  a  pleasing  object  in  my  view  j 
My  visit  still,  but  never  mine  abode* 
e2 


18  THE    TASK,  BOOK    I. 

Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonade 
Invites  us,  monument  of  ancient  taste. 
Now  scorn'd,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fatCr 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen 
From  sultry  suns  ;  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long-protracted  bowers,  enjoy'd  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
We  bear  our  shades  about  us  f.  self-depriv'd 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread^ 
And  range  an  Indian  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus* — ^he  spares  me  yet  ^, 
These  chesnuts  ranged  in  corresponding  lines  ; 
And,  though  himself  so  polishM,  still  reprieves 
The  obsolete  proHxity  of  shade. 

Descending  now  (but  cautious,  lest  too  fast) 
A  sudden  steep,  upon  a  rustic  bridge 
We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendant  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ankle  deep  in  moss  and  flowery  thymcj. 
We  mount  again,   and  feel  at  every  step 
Our  foot  half  sunk  in  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Rais'd  by  the  mole,  the  miner  of  the  soil. 
He,  not  unhke  the  great  ones  of  mankind, 
Disfigures  earth  ;    and,  plotting  in  the  dark. 
Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile. 
That  may  record  the  mischiefs  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gain'd,  behold  the  proud  alcove 
That  crowns  it ;  yet  not  all  its  pride  secures 


*  John  Courtney  Throckmorton,  Esq.  of  Weston  Uoderwooi!» 


BOOK  I.  THE   SOFA.  19 

The  grand  retreat  from  injuries  impressed 

By  rural  carvers,  who  with  knives  deface 

The  pannels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name. 

In  characters  uncouth,  and  spelt  amiss. 

So  strong  the  zeal  t*  immortalize  himself       V 

Beats  in  the  breast  of  man,  that  even  a  few, 

Few  transient  years,  won  from  th'  abyss  abhorr'd 

Of  blank  obhvion,  seem  a  glorious  prize. 

And  even  to  a  clown.      Now  roves  the  eye  ; 

And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 

Exults  in  its  command.     The  sheep-fold  here 

Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o*er  the  glebe. 

At  first  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 

The  middle  field  ;  but  scattered  by  degrees. 

Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 

There,  from  the  sun-burnt  hay-field,  homeward  creeps 

The  loaded  wain  ;  while,  lighten'd  of  its  charge. 

The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by  ; 

The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 

Vociferous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 

Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene. 

Diversified  vdth  trees  of  every  growth, 

Alike,  yet  various.      Here  the  grey  smooth  trunks 

Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine, 

Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades  ; 

There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 

Seems  sunk,  and  shortened  to  its  topmost  boughs. 

No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  it  charms. 

Though  each  its  hue  p  eculiar  ;  paler  some. 

And  of  a  wannish  grey  ;   the  willow  such,. 

And  poplar,  that  v6ili  silver  lines  hisleaf, 


so  THE  TASK. 


BOOK   l» 


And  ash  far  stretching  his  umbrageous  arm  f 

Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still, 

Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long-surviving  oak. 

Some  glossy Jeav'd,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 

The    maple,  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts 

Prolific,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 

Diffusing  odours  :  nor  unnoted  pass 

The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire, 

Now  green,  now  tawny,  and  ere  autumn  yet 

Have  chang'd  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honours  bright. 

O'er  these,  but  far  beyond  (a  spacious  map 

Of  hill  and  valley  interpos'd  between) 

The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well  water'd  land, 

Now  glitters  in  the  sun,  and  now  retires, 

As  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen. 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short, 
And  such  the  re-ascent ;  between  them  weeps 
A  Httle  naiad  her  impoverished  urn 
All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 
The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now, 
But  that  the  lord*  of  this  enclosed  demesne^ 
Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns. 
Admits  me  to  a  share  ;  the  guiltless  eye 
Commits  no  wrong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 
Refreshing  change  !  where  now  the  blazing  sun  ? 
By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 
And  stepp'd  at  once  into  a  cooler  chme, 
Ye  fallen  avenues  I  once  more  I  mourn 


*  See  the  foregoing  not^. 


BOOK  i«  ^    THE   SOFA.  21 

Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice, 
That  yet  a  remnant  of  your  race  survives. 
How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch^ 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems  !  while  beneath 
The  chequer'd  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brush'd  by  the  wind.     So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance^ 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick. 
An'!',  darkening  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  every  moment,  every  spot. 

And   now,    with    nerves   new    brac'd  and  spirits 
cheer'd, 
We  tread  the  wilderness,  whose  well-rolPd  walks, 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep — 
Deception  innocent — give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.     The  grove  receives  us  next  j 
Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  after  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail. 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 
Full  on  the  destin'd  ear.     Wide  flies  the  chaff. 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  frequent  mist 
Of  atoms,  sparkling  in  the  noon-day  beam. 
Come  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down. 
And  sleep  not  :  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it. — *Tis  the  primal  curse. 
But  softened  into  mercy ;  made  the  pledge 
Of  cheerful  days,  and  nights  without  a  groaii.. 


SS'  THE  TA5K.   ^  BOQK  F. 

By  ceaseless  actioaall  that  is  subsists. 
Constant  rotation  of  th'  unwearied  wheel 
That  nature  rides  upon>  maintains  her  health, 
Her  beauty,  her  fertihty.     She  dreads 
An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves^ 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  world. 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air^ 
And  fit  the  limpid  element  for  use, 
Else  noxious  :  oceans,  rivers,  lakes  and  streams^ 
All  feel  the  freshening  impulse,  and  are  cleans'd 
By  restless  undulation  :  even  the  oak 
Thrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm  i 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
Th*  impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain,. 
Frowning,  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder  :  but  the  monarch  oweS" 
His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns — 
More  fix'd  below,  the  more  disturbed  above. 
The  huv,  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound. 
Binds  man  the  lord  of  alL     Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause, 
From  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 
The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 
Wlien  custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find, 
For  none  they  need  :  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 
Deserted  of  its  bloom.,  the  flaccid,  shrunk. 
And  withered  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul, 
Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest. 
To  which  he  forfeits  even  the  rest  he  loves. 
Not  such  the  akrt  and  active.     Measure  life 


£00K  1.  THE  SOFA,  3$ 

By  its  true  worth,  the  comforts  it  aiFords, 
And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 
Good  health,  and,  its  associate  in  most, 
Good  temper  ;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake. 
And  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task  ; 
The  powers  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs  | 
Even  age  itself  seems  privileged  in  them, 
With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 
A  sparkling  eye  beneath  a  wrinkled  front 
The  veteran  shows,  and,  gracing  a  grey  beard 
With  youthful  smiles,  descends  toward  the  grave 
Sprightly,  and  old  almost  without  decay. 

Like  a  coy  maiden,  ease,  when  courted  most, 
Farthest  retires— an  idol,  at  whose  shrine 
Who  oftenest  sacrifice  are  favoured  least. 
The  love  of  nature,  and  the  scene  she  draws, 
Is  nature's  dictate.     Strange  !   there  should  be  found^ 
Who,  self-imprison 'd  in  their  proud  saloons. 
Renounce  the  odours  of  the  open  field 
For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom  ; 
Who,  satisfied  with  only  penciled  scenes, 
Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a  God 
Th'  inferior  wonders  of  an  artist's  hand  i 
Lovely  indeed  the  mimic  works  of  art ; 
But  nature's  works  far  lovelier.     I  admire- 
None  more  admires — the  painter's  magic  skill. 
Who  shows  me  that  which  I  shall  never  see. 
Conveys  a  distant  country  into  mine. 
And  throws  Italian  light  on  English  walls  ; 
jBut  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  more 


24  THE  TASK.  BOOK  I. 

Than  please  the  eye — sweet  nature  every  sense. 
The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hills, 
The  cheering  fragrance  of  her  dewy  vales, 
And  music  of  her  woods — no  works  of  matt 
May  rival  these  ;  these  all  bespeak  a  power 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 
Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast  % 
'Tis  free  to  all — 'Tis  every  day  renew'd  5 
Who  scorns  it  starves  deservedly  at  home. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  imprison'd  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a  prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapours,  dank 
And  clammy,  of  his  dark  abode,  have  bred, 
Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  light : 
His  cheek  recovers  soon  its  iiealthful  liue  ; 
His  eye  reluniines  its  extinguish'd  fires  ; 
He  walks,  he  leaps,  he  runs — is  wing'd  with  joy, 
And  riots  in  the  sweets  of  every  breeze. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who  has  long  endur'd 
A  fever's  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 
Nor  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflamed 
With  acrid  salts ;  his  very  heart  athirst 
To  gaze  at  nature  in  her  green  array. 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possessed 
With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire  : 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find- 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns  ; 
The  lowering  eye,  the  petulance,  the  frown, 


SOOK   I.  THE  SOFA.  ^5 

And  sullen  sadness,  that  o'ershade,  distort, 

And  mar  the  face  of  beauty,  when  no  cause 

For  such  immeasureable  woe  appears. 

These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair 

Sweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  than  her  owa. 

It  is  the  constant  revolution,  stale 

And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys. 

That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  life 

A  pedlar's  pack,  that  bows  the  bearer  down. 

Health  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb  ;  the  heart 

Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 

Is  famishM — finds  no  music  in  the  song, 

No  smartness  in  the  jest  ;  and  wonders  wiiy. 

Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on. 

Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread* 

The  paralytic,  who  can  hold  her  cards, 

But  cannot  play  them,  borrows  a  friend's  hand 

To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort, 

Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences ;  and  sits. 

Spectatress  both  and  spectacle,  a  sad 

And  silent  cypher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 

Others  are  dragg'd  into  the  crowded  room 

Between  supporters  ;  and,  once  seated,  sit. 

Through  dow^nright  inability  to  rise, 

Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corps  again. 

These  speak  a  loud  memento.     Yet  even  thesft 

Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he 

That  overhangs  a  torrent  to  a  twig. 

They  love  it,  and  yet  Icatli  it ;  fear  to  die. 

Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  live* 

tOL  iU  Q^ 


?G  THE  TASK.  BOOK    1. 

Then  \vherefore  not  renounce  them  ?  No — the  dread, 
The  slavish  dread  of  soHtude,  that  breeds 
Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame, 
And  their  inveterate  habits,  all  forbid. 

Whom  call  we  gay  ?  That  honour  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
The  innocent  are  gay — the  lark  is  gay. 
That  dries  his  feathers,  saturate  with  dew, 
Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams 
Of  day-spring  over-shoot  his  humble  nest. 
The  peasant  too,  a  witness  of  his  song, 
Pliinself  a  songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 
But  save  me  from  the  gaiety  of  those 
Whose  head-aches  nail  them  to  a  noon-day  bed^ 
And  save  me  too  from  theirs  whose  haggard  eyes 
Flash  desperation,  and  betray  their  pangs 
For  property  stripped  off  by  cruel  chance  ; 
From  gaiety  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain. 
The  mouth  with  blasphemy,  the  heart  with  woe. 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change. 
And  pleasM  with  novelty-,  might  be  indulged. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade  ;  the  weary  sight, 
Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off, 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 
Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  sheltered  vale. 
Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 
Dehght  us  ;  happy  to  renounce  awhile. 
Not  scnsekss  of  its  charm»;  what  still  we  love, 


K 


SOOK  r.  THE   SOFA,  9^ 

That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please^ 
Tha^"  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man.     His  hoary  head. 
Conspicuous  many  a  league,  the  mariner, 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there. 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulthig.     At  his  wals£ 
A  girdle  of  half-withered  shrubs  he  shows, 
And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die. 
The  common,  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deform'd,- 
And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom, 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ram.ble  ;  there  tlie  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regfales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets.. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimm'd 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  ribband  bounds 
A  serving  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  wenl  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  followed  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores  ;  and  she  would  sit  aad  weep 
i^t  what  a  sailor  suffers  ;  fancy,  too, 
Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are. 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return. 
And  dream,  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death— 
And  never  gmil'd  a^aiu  1  and  now  she  roams 


28 


THE   TASK,  BOOK  I. 


The  dreary  waste  ;  there  spends  the  livelong  day, 

Ajid  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 

The  hvelong  night.      A  tatter'd  apron  hides, 

Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a  gown 

More  tatter'd  still  ;  and  both  but  ill  conceal 

A  bosom  heav'd  with  never-ceasing   sighs, 

She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 

And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve  ;  but  needful  food, 

Though  press'd  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 

Tho'  pinch'd  with  cold,  asks  never. — Kate  is  craz'd  I 

■  I  see  a  column  of  slow  rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild, 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.     A  kettle,  slung 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse. 
Receives  the  morsel — iiesh  obscene  of  dog. 
Or  vermin,  or,  at  best,  of  cock  purlcin'd 
I'rom  bis  accustom'd  perch.     Hard-faring  race  ! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge, 
Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unquench'd 
The  spark  of  life.     The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  fluttering  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin, 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 

Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  mor« 
To  conjure  clean  av>'ay  the  gold  they  touch, 

Conveying  w^orthless  dross  into  its  place  ; 

Loud  wlien  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steai. 

Strange  !   that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 

Inhuman  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 

His  xiiitnre  j  and,  though  capable  of  art* 


r.     2ii.     Vol.n^ 


y> 


^///-      /.> 


BOOK   U  THE   SCFA.  2i>' 

By  which  the  world  might  profit  and  himself, 

Self  banish'd  from  society,  prefer 

Such  squalid  sloth  to  honourable  toil ! 

Yet  even  these,  though,  feigning  sickness  oft, 

They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb^ 

And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 

Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note 

When  safe  occasion  oft'ers  ;  and,  with  dance. 

And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag, 

Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 

Such  health  and  gaiety  of  heart  enjoy 

The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world  ; 

And,  breathing  wholesome  air  and  wandering  much, 

Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  th'  effects 

Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguished  from  the  croud 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dwells  secure, 
Where  man,  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 
His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn. 
The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life. 
His  wants,  indeed,  are  many  ;  but  supply 
Is  obvious,  plac'd  within  the  easy  reach 
Of  temperate  wishes  and  industrious  hands. 
Here  virtue  thrives  as  in  her  proper  soil  ; 
Not  rude  and  surly,  and  beset  with  thorns. 
And  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  slie  spriiigs 
(If  e'er  she  spring  spontaneous)  in  remote 
And  barbarous  climes,  where  violence  prevails,- 
And  strength  is  lord  of  all ;   but  gentle,  kind. 
By  culture  tam'd,  by  liberty  refreshed, 
€  2 


so  THE  TASK*  BOOK   X. 

And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matured. 
War  and  the  chase  engross  the  savage  whole  5 
War  follow 'd  for  revenge,  or  to  supplant 
The  envied  tenants  of  some  happier  spot. 
The  chase  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust ! 
His  hard  condition  with  severe  constraint 
Binds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 
Of  wisdom,  proves  a  school  in  which  he  learnt 
Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate, 
Mean  self  attachment,  and  scarce  aught  beside. 
Thus  fare  the  shivering  natives  of  the  north, 
And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 
Where  it  advances  far  into  the  deep, 
Towards  th'  antarctic.     Even  the  favour'd  isles, 
So  lately  found,  although  the  constant  sun 
Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a  grateful  smile. 
Can  boast  but  little  virtue  ;  and,  inert 
Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals  what  they  gain 
in  manners— victims  of  luxurious  ease. 
These  therefore  I  can  pity,  plac'd  remote 
From  all  that  science  traces,  art  inver.ts. 
Or  inspiration  teaches  ;  and  enclosed 
In  boundless  oceans,  never  to  be  passed 
By  navigators  uninform'd  as  they. 
Or  ploughed  perhaps  by  British  bark  again  : 
But,  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  wnth  most  cause. 
Thee,  gentle  savage  !*    whom  no  love  of  thee 
Or  thine,  but  curiosity  perhaps, 


*  Omai. 


BOOK  t.  THE    SOFA,  ^ 

Oi  else  vain  glory,  prompted  us  to  draw 

Forth  from  thy  native  bowers,  to  show  thee  her« 

With  what  superior  skill  we  can  abuse 

The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 

The  dream  is  past ;  and  thou  hast  found  agaia 

Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams, 

And  homestall  thatch'd  with  leaves.     But  hast  thou 

found 
Their  former  charms  ?  And,  having  seen  our  state.. 
Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 
Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports. 
And  heard  our  music  ;  are  thy  simple  friends. 
Thy  simple  fare,  and  all  thy  plain  delights, 
As  dear  to  thee  as  once  ?  And  have  thy  joys 
Lost  nothing  by  comparison  with  ours  ? 
Rude  as  thou  art,  (for  we  return  thee  rude 
And  ignorant,  except  of  outward  show) 
I  cannot  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 
And  spiritless,  as  never  to  regret 
Sweets  tasted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 
Methinks  I  see  thee  straying  on  the  beach, 
And  asking  of  the  surge  that  bathes  thy  foot, 
If  ever  it  has  wash'd  our  distant  shore. 
I  see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 
A  patriot's  for  his  country  :  thou  art  sad 
At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 
From  which  no  power  of  thine  can  raise  her  up. 
Thus,  fancy  paints  thee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 
Perhaps  errs  little  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 
She  tells  me,  too,  that  duly  every  morn 


^  THE    TASK.  BOOK.U 

Thou  cllmb'st  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 
Exploring  far  and  wide  the  watery  w^aste 
For  sight  of  ship  from  England.     Every  speck 
Seen  in  the  dim  horizon  turns  thee  pale 
With  conflict  of  contending  hopes  and  fears. 
But  comes  at  last  the  dull  and  dusky  eve, 
And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepared 
To  dream  all  night  ofw^hatthe  day  denied. 
Alas  !   expect  it  not.     We  found  no  bait 
To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.     Doing  good^ 
Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 
We  travel  far  'tis  true,  but  not  for  naught ; 
And  muGt  be  brib'd,  to  compass  earth  again, 
By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 

But,  though  true  worth  and  virtue  in  the  mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  hfe 
Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there, 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud,  and  gay, 
And  gain-devoted  cities.     Thither  flow, 
As  to  a  common  and  most  noisome  sew'r,. 
The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 
In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds 
Begets  its  likeness.      Rank  abundance  breeds 
In  gross  and  pamper'd  cities  sloth  and  lust. 
And  wantonness  and  gluttonous  excess. 
In  cities  vice  is  hidden  with  m^ost  ease, 
Or  seen  with  least  reproach  ;  and  virtue,  taught 
By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  trium.ph  there 
Beyond  th*  achievment  of  successful  flight. 
I  do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts. 


BOOK  I. 


THE    SOFA.  S* 


In  which  they  flourish  most  ;   where,  in  the  beams 

Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye 

Of  pubhc  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 

Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaim'd 

The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 

By  riot  and  incontinence  the  woi'St. 

There,  touch 'd  by  Reynolds,  a.  dull  blank  becomes- 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  nature  sees 

All  her  reflected  features.     Bacon  there 

Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone. 

And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chissel  occupy  alone 

The  powers  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much  j. 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 

She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil. 

So  sterile  with  what  charms  soever  she  will. 

The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 

Where  tinds  philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 

Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots  ? 

In  London  :   where  her  implements  exact, 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scanty 

All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 

Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a  world  ? 

In  London.      Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart,. 

So  rich,  sothrong'd,  sodrain'd,  and  so  supplied, 

As  London — opulent,  enlarg'd,  and  still 

Increasing,  London  ?  Babylon  of  old 


$4  THE   TASK.  EQOK.  |^ 

Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 

A  more  accomphsh'd  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or  two,. 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge  ; 
And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair 
May  yet  be  foul ;  so  witty,  yet  not  wise. 
It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 
That  she  is  slack  in  discipline  ;  more  prompt 
T'  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law  : 
That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 
On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life 
And  liberty,  and  oft  times  honour  too, 
To  peculators  of  the  public  gold  : 
That  thieves  at  home  must  hang  ;  but  he  that  putt 
Into  his  overgorgM  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 
Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 
That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt 
Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presum'd  t'  annul 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 
The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God ; 
Advancing  fashion  to  the  post  of  truth,. 
And  centring  all  authority  in  modes 
And  customs  of  her  own,  till  sabbath  rites 
Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  fonns, 
And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well  nigh  divorc'd. 

God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  townv 
What  wonder  then  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all>  should  most  abound 


SOOK  I.  THE   SOFA.  3S 

And  least  be  threat en'd  in  the  fields  and  groves  ? 
Possess  ye,  therefore,  ye,  who,  borne  about 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
-But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element ;  there  only  can  ye  shine  ; 
Thereonly  minds  hke  yours, can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon 
The  pensive  wanderer  in  their  shades.     At  ev« 
The  moon-beam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  war-bling  all  the  music.     We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps  ;  they  but  eclipse 
iOur  softer  satelHte.     Your  songs  confound 
Our  more  harmonious  notes  ;  the  thrush  depart* 
Scar'd,  and  th'  offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  pubHc  mischief  in  your  mirth  ; 
It  plagues  your  country.      Folly  such  as  yours, 
Grac'd  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done, 
vOur  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure,  soen  to  fall, 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK. 

McflecUGTis  suggested  hy  the  conclusicn  of  the  former  hooh.^-^ 
P eace  among  the  naUons  recommended^  on  the  ground  of 
their  common  fUo*ivsh'p  in  sorrow. — Prodigies  enume* 
rated. — Sicilian  earthquakes, — Man  rendered  obnoxious 
to  these  calamities  hy  sin. — God  the  agent  in  them.-^ 
The  philosophy  that  stops  at  secondary  causes  reproved^ 
Our  oiun /ate  miscarriages  account  dfor, — Satirical  notice 
taken  of  our  trips  to  Fontainbleau, — But  the  pulpit y 
not  satire^  the  proper  engine  of  reformation. — Th^  Reis- 
er end  Ad'vertiser  of  engraved  sermons. — Petitmaitrc 
Parson. — The  good  preacher, — Pictures  of  a  theatrical 
elerical  coxcomb, — Story  tellers  and  jesters  in  the  pulpit 
reproved.  — j4postrophe  to  popular  applause, — Retailers  of 
ancient  philosophy  expostulated  'with. — Sum  of  the  nvhok 
matter. — Effects  of  sacerdotal  mismanagement  on  the 
laity, — Their  folly  and  extravagance. — The  mischiefs 
cf  profusion. —  Profusion  itself  with  all  its  consequent 
ivilsy  ascribed^  as  to  its  principal  cause^  to  the  wani  of 
discipline  in  the  universities* 


THE  TASK, 


BOOK   II. 


TH£    TIME.PIECK 

^i'H  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit. 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 
Might  never  reach  me  more.     My  ear  is  pain'd^      ^ 
My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  £lPd. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart. 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  sever'd  as  the  fJax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of   fire> 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  coloured  like  his  own  !   and,  having  power 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
VOL.  n.  D 


38  THE   TASK. 


BOOK   H; 


Abhor  each  other.     Mountain^  interpos'd 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else. 
Like  kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplor'd. 
As  hum.an  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Weeps  when  she  sees  iniiicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?  And  wiiat  man,  seeing  this. 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ?    , 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  cany  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd. 
No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  priz'd  above  all  price, 
I  had  XTxUch  rather  be  myself  the  slave. 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home.-— Then  w^hy  abroad  i 
And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loos'd. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungg 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  falL 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  itjhen, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 


•SOOK   n*  THE   TIME-PIECE.  3» 

OF  all  your  empire  ;  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse. 
Benevolence,  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid. 
Between  the  nations,  in  a  world  that  seems 
To  toll  the  death-bell  of  its  own  decease. 
And  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements 
To  preach  the  general  doam.*"  When  were  the  wind^ 
l^et  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  ? 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap 
Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry  ? 
Fires  from  beneath,  and  meteorsf  from  above, 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplained, 
Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies  ;  and  th'  old 
And  crazy  earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits 
More  frequent,  and  forgone  her  usual  rest* 
Is  it  a  time  to  wTangle,  when  the  props 
And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
And  nature  with  a  dim  and  sickly  eye:{: 
To  wait  the  close  of  all  ?  But  jjrant  her  end 
Moie  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A  longer  respite,  unaccomplish'd  yet  ; 
Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  h  i  s  breast  who  smites  the  earth 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice. 


*  Alluding  to  the  calamiiies  at  Jimiaica. 
f  August  i8,   1783. 

X  AUudins  to  the  fog  that  covered  both  Europe  and  Aitx 
iJuniig  the  v»'hole  summer  cf  178^. 


40  THE  TASK* 


BOOK    lU 


And  '^tis  but  seemly,  that,  where  all  deserve 
And  stand  expos'd  by  common  peccancy 
To  what  no  few  have  feh,  there  should  be  peace. 
And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 

Alas  for  Sicily  !   rude  fragments  no\T 
Lie  scatter'd  where  the  shapely  column  stood. 
Her  palaces  are  dust.     In  ail  her  streets 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.     Revelry,  and  dance,  and  show 
Suffer  a  syncope  and  solemn  pause  ; 
While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stag"? 
Of  his  own  works  his  dreadful  part  alone. 
How  does  the  earth  receive  him  ? — With  what  signs 
Of  gratulation  and  dehght,  her  King  ? 
Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad, 
Her  sweetest  flowers,  her  aromatic  gums, 
Disclosing  paradise  where'er  he  treads  ? 
She  quakes  at  his  approach.     Her  hollow  womb, 
Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps 
And  fiery  caverns  roars  beneath  his    foot. 
The  hills  move  hghtly,  and  the  mountains  smoke, 
for  he  has  touch'd  them.     From  th'  extremest  point 
Of  elevation  down  into  th'  abyss 
His  wn*ath  is  busy,  and  his  frown  is  felt. 
The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  vallies  rise, 
The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 
And,  charg'd  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a  gross 
And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 
What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange, 
Grows  fluid  ;  and  the  fix'd  and  rooted  earthy 


BOOK   II. 


THE   TIME.PIECE.  41 


Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  and  swells, 
Or  with  vortiorinous    and  hideous  whirl 

o 

Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.      Immense 
The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 
And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute 
Multitudes,  fugitive  on  every  side, 
And  fugitive  in  vain.     The  sylvan  scene 
Migrates  uplifted  ;   and,  with  all  its  soil 
Ahghting  in  far  distant  fields,  finds  out 
A  new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change. 
Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  upwrought 
To  an  enormous  and  o'erbearing  height, 
Not  by  a  mighty  wind,  but  by  that  voice 
Which  winds  and  weaves  obey,  invades  the  shore 
Resistless,      Never  such  a  sudden  flood, 
Upridg'd  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge, 
Possess'd  an  inland  scene.     Where  now  the  throng 
That  press'd  the  beach,  and  hasty  to  depart, 
Look'd  to  the  sea  for  safety  ?  They  are  gone, 
Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep— 
A  prince  with  half  his  people  !   Ancient  towers, 
And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes 
Where  beauty  oft  and  letter'd  worth  consume 
Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 
Fall  prone  :  the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth. 
And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 
From  all  the  rigours  of  restraint,  enjoy 
The  terrors  of  the  day  that  sets  them  free. 
Who  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast^ 
Freedom  !   whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret, 
D  2 


48  THE   TASK,  ftO0K>I}. 

That  even  a  judgment,  making  way  for  tliee, 
Seems  in  their  eyes  a  mercy  for  thy  sake. 

Such  evil  sin  hath  wrought  ;  and  such  a  flame 
Kindled  in  heaven,  that  it  burns  down  to  earth. 
And,  in  the  furious  inquest  that  it  makes 
On  God's  behalf,  lays  waste  his  fairest  works. 
The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 
The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants. 
Conspire  against  him.      With  his  breath  he  draws 
A  plague  into  his  blood  ;  and  cannot  use 
Life's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 
Storms  rise  t'  o'crwhelm  him  ;  or,  if  stormy  windf 
Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise. 
And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm, 
Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there. 
The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds. 
Or  make  his  hou  e  his  grave  ;  nor  so  content,. 
Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood. 
And  drown  him  in  her  dry   and  dusty  gulfs. 
What  then  I   were  they  the  wicked  above  all, 
And  we  the  righteous,  wliose  fast  anchored  isle 
Mov'd  not,  while  theirs  was  rock'd,  like  a  light  skiflF, 
The  sport  of  every  wave  ?  No  :  none  are  clear, 
And  none  than  we  more  guilty.     But,  where  all 
Stand  chargeable  wath  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts 
Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark  ; 
May  punish,  if  he  please,  the  less,  to  w^arn 
The  more  mahgnant.     If  he  spar'd  not  them. 
Tremble  and  be  amaz'd  at  thine  escape. 
Far  guiltier  England,  lest  he  spare  not  thee  ! 


BOOK   II,  THE   TIME-PIECE.  49 

;  Happy  the  man  who  sees  a  God  employed 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  chequer  life  I 
Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme, 
Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate  ;)   could  chance 
Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan  ; 
Then  God  might  be  surpris'd,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
This  truth  philosophy,  though  eagle-ey'd 
In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks  ; 
And,  having  found  his  instrument,  forgets, 
Or  disregards,  or  more  presumptuous  still, 
Denies  the  power  that  wields  it.     God  proclaim* 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foohsh  men, 
That  live  an  atheist  life  :  involves  the  heaven 
In  tempests ;   quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  ;  bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  boil  upon  the  skin, 
And  putrify  the  breath  of  blooming  health. 
He  calls  for  famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivePd  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.     He  springs  his  mines^ 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs 
And  principles ;  of  causes,  how  they  work 


41  TrtE    TASK,  lOOK   !I. 

By  necessary  laws  their  sure  efiTects  ; 

Of  action  and  reaction.     He  has  found 

The  source  of  the  disease  that  nature  feels, 

And  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear. 

Thou  fool  !    will  thy  discovery  of  the  cause 

Suspend  th'  effect,  or  heal  it  ?  Has  net  God 

Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  made  the  world  ? 

And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 

To  drown  it  ?  What  is  his  creation  less 

Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means 

Form'd  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ? 

Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve  ;  ask  of  him. 

Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught  ; 

And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all. 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still— 
My  country  !   and,   while  yet  a  nook  is  left 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.     Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deform'd 
V/ith  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies. 
And  fields  without  a -flower  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  vines  ;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bowers. 
To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task  : 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows,  with  as  true  a  heart 
As  any  thunderer  there.     Aad  I  can  feel 


BOOK  II.  THE  TIME-PIECE.  45 

Thy  follies  too  ;  and  with  a  just  disdain 

Frown  at  efFe  mi  nates,  whose  very  looks 

Reflect  dishonour  on  the  land  I  love. 

How,  in  the  name* of  soldiership  and  sense, 

Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth 

And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenc'd  o'er 

With  odours,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet  ; 

Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 

And  love  when  they  should  fight ;  when  such  as  these 

Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 

Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ? 

Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 

In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 

That  we  were  born  her  children.     Praise  enough 

To  fill  th'  ambition  of  a  private  man, 

That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother  tongue. 

And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  owo, 

Farewel  those  honours,  and  farewel  with  them 

The  hope  of  such  hereafter  !  They  have  fallea 

Each  in  his  field  of  glory  ;  one  in  arms, 

And  one  in  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 

OfsmiHng  victory  that  moment  won, 

And  Chatham  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame  ! 

They  made  us  many  soldiers.     Chatham,  still 

Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home. 

Secured  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown. 

If  any  wrong'd  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought. 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 

That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force, 

And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  lov'i 


^9o  the:  task,  eoox  it* 

Those  suns  are  set.     Oh,  rise  some  other  such  ! 
Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 
Of  old  achievements,  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.      Strew  the  deck 
With  lavander,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets. 
That  no  rude  savour  maratime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility  !   Breathe  soft. 
Ye  clarionets  ;  and  softer  still  ye  flutes  ; 
That  winds  and  waters,  lulPd  by  magic  sounds. 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore  I 
True,  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass. 
True,  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France, 
That  pick'd  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown, 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew. 
And  let  that  pass — 'twas  but  a  trick  of  state  ^ 
A  brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war. 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friend's  em.brace. 
And  sham'd  as  we  have  been,  to  th*  very  beard 
Brav'd  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  prov'd 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows  that  once 
Ensur'd  us  mastery  there,  we  yet  retain. 
Some  small  pre-eminence  ;    we  justly  boast 
At  least  superior  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honoui*s  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own  I 
Go,  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek. 
And  show  the  shame  ye  might  conceal  at  home 
In  foreign  eyes  ! — be  grooms,  and  win  the  plate 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a  crown  !-— 


800K  II.  THE   TIME-PIECE.  47 

'Tis  generous  to  conununicate  your  skill 

To  those  that  need  it.     Folly  is  soon  learn'd  : 

And,  under  such  preceptors,  who  can  fail  i 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetie  pains 
Which  only  poets  know.     The  shifts  and  turns, 
Th'  expedients  and  inventions,  multiform, 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  diiScult  to  win — 
T'  arrest  the  fleeting  images  that  fill 
The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast. 
And  force  them  sit  till  he  has  penciPd  off 
A  faithful  likeness  of  the  form  he  views  ; 
Then  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art. 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  hglit. 
And  shine  by  situation,  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labour  and  the  skill  it  cost  ; 
Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought 
With  such  adiress  from  themes  of  sad  import, 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man  1 
He  feels'th*  anxieties  of  life,  denied 
Their  wonted  entertainment,  all  retire. 
Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.     But  ah  !  not  sucbf 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song» 
Fastidious,  or  else  listless,  or  perhaps 
Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 
They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 
His  dangers  or  escapes.,  and  haply  find 
Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most. 
JBut  is  anausement  all  I  studious  of  song, 


IB  THE  TASK. 


BOOK   11 


And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 

I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 

Be  loudest  in  their  praise  who  do  no  more. 

Yet  wh^t  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  i 

It  may  correct  a  foible,  may  chastise 

The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress. 

Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch  ; 

But  where  are  its  subhmer  trophies  found  ? 

What  vice  has  it  subdued  ?  whose  heart  reclaim'd 

By  rigour,  or  whom  laugh'd  into  reform  ? 

Alas !    Leviathan  i«  not  so  tam'd  : 

LaughM  at,  he  laughs  again  ;  and,  stricken  hard^ 

Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales. 

That  fear  no  disciphne  of  human  handa. 

The  pulpit,  therefore  (and  I  name  it  fill'd 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing)— 
The   pulpit  (when  the   satirist  has  at  last. 
Strutting  and  vapouring   in  an  empty  school, 
Spent  all  his  force  and  made  no  proselyte)  — 
I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  powers) 
Must  stand  ackxiOwledgM,  while  the  world  sliall  stand, 
The  most  importaut  and  effectual  guard. 
Support  and  ornament  of  virtue's  cause. 
There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth  :  there  standi  - 
The  legate  of  the  skies  ! — His  theme  divine. 
His  ofEce  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  la-vv  speaks  out 
Its  thunders  j  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 


-BOaK   H.  THE   TiME-PIECE.  4?S 

As  angels  use,  the  goSpel  whispers  peace. 

He  'stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 

Reclaims  the  wanderer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 

And,  arm'd  himself  ia  panoply  complete 

Of  heavenly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms, 

Bright  as  his  own,  and  trails,  by  every  rule 

Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war, 

The  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect  1 

Are  all  such  teachei'S  ? — would  to  heaven  all  were  I 

But  hark — the  doctor's  voice  I  —fast  wedg'd  between 

Two  empirics  he  stands,  and  v/itli  swollen  cheeks 

Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.      Keener  far 

Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue, 

While  through  that  public  organ  of  report 

He  hails  the  clergy  ;   and,  defying  shame. 

Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs  ! 

He  teaches  those  to  read,  whom  schools  dismissed, 

And  colleges,  untaught  ;  sells  accent,  tone, 

And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  prayer 

Th'  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 

He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 

Down  into  modern  use  ;  transforms  old  print 

To  zig-zag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 

Of  gallery  critics  by  a  thousand  arts. 

Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  doctor's  ware  ? 

Oh,  namicit  not  in  Oath  ! — it  cannot  be, 

That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 

He  doubtless  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 

Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before — - 

Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  church  ! 

VOL.  II.  E 


5<W'  THE   TASK.  BOOK   II. 

I  venerate  the  man  whose  heart  is  warm, 
AVhose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  hfe, 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause. 
To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But,  loose  in  morals,  and  in  manners  vain, 
In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse  ; 
Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambling  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes  ; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card  5 
Constant  at  routs, familiar  with  a  round 
Of  ladyships — a  stranger  to  the  poor  ; 
Anibitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold, 
And  well  prepar'd,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 
By  infidelity  and  love  o*  the  world. 
To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure  ;  a  slave 
To  liis  own  pleasures  and  his  patren's  pride  : 
From  such  apostles,  oh,  ye  mitred  heads. 
Preserve  the  church  !   and  lay  not  careless  hands 
On  sculls  that  cannot  teach  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve  and  own- 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt ;  in  language  plain. 
And  plain  in  manner  j  decent,  solemn,  chaste. 


BOOK    n.  THE   TIME-PIECE. 

And  natural  in  gesture  ;  much  impressed 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge. 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too  ;  affectionate  in  look, 
And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 
Behold  the  picture  !   Is  it  like  ? — Like  whom  ? 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again  ;  pronounce  a  text ; 
Cry — hem  ;   and,  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 
And    with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene  ? 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 
i  And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
j  And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loath 
1  All  affectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn  ; 
'  Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What  !  — will  a  man  play  tricks,  will  he  indulge 
A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form. 
And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 
As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand. 
And  play  his  briUiant  parts  before  my  eyes. 
When  I  am  hungry'  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  p;-ostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth. 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock  ! 
Therefore  avaunt  all  attitude  and  stare, 
And  start  theatric  practised  at  the  glass  I 


#1 


f§^  THE   TASK.  EQOK   U. 

I 

I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 
Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learii'd  with  labour,   and    though  much    ad- 
mi  r'd 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments   ill  informed, 
To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men^ 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Through  the  prest  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 
Some,  decent  in  demeanour  while  they  preach. 
That  task  perform'd,  relapse  into  themselves  ;. 
And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow^  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  every  eye  — 
Whoe'er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not  \ 
Forth  comes  the  pocket  mirror.      First  we  stroke 
An  eye-brow  ;   next,  compose  a  straggling  lock  ;; 
Then  w^ith  an  air,  most  gracefully  periorm'd. 
Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm, 
And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 
With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low  :■ 
The  better  hand,  more  busy,  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  tli'  indebted  eye 
With  opera  glass,  to  watch  tlie  moving  scene. 
And  recognize  the  slow-retiring  fair. — 
Now  this  is  fulsome  ;  and  offends  me  more- 
Than  in  a  churchman  slovenly  neglect 
And  rustic  coarseness  would.     A  heavenly  mind 
May  be  indifferent  to  her  house  of  clay, 
And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care  ; 


BOOK  II.  THE  TIME-PIECE. 

But  how  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim 

And  quaint  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 

Can  lodge  a  heavenly  mind — demands  a  doubt. 

He  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 
As  God's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware 
Of  hghtness  in  his  speech.      'Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soul ; 
To  break  a  jest  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetic  exortation  ;  and  t'  address 
The  skittish  fancy  with  facetious  tales, 
When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart  1 
So  did  not  Paul.      Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 
And  I  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 
Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail. 
No  :  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms 
That  he  had  ta'en  ia  charge.     He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those  by  jocular  exploits. 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assailM  in  vain. 

Oh,  popular  applause  !   what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  charms  ? 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales  ; 
But,  swellM  into  a  gust  —  who,  then,  alas  1 
With  all  his  canvass  set,  and  inexpert. 
And  therefore  heedless,  can  Vv^ithstand  thy  power  r 
Praise  from  the  rivePd  hps  of  toothless,  bald 
Decrepitude  ;  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
E  2 


^ 


ffg  THE  TASK.  BOOK    iim 

And  craviug  poverty  ;  and  in  the  bo\r 
Respectful  of  the  smutch'd  artificer  ; 
Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much  disturb 
The  bias  of  the  purpose.      How  much  more, 
Pour'd  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  pohte, 
in  language  soft  as  adoration  breathes  ? 
Ah,  spare  your  idol  1   think  him  human  stilL 
Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  too  * 
Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  light  divine.      But  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Rome,. 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.     More  favoured,  wc 
Drink,  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain  head. 
To  them  it  f  owM  much  m.ingled  and  defil'd 
With  hurtful  error,  prejudice,  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so  call'd, 
Eut  falsely.      Sages  after  sages  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  off  a  en- stal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanced 
The  thirst  than  slak'd  it,  and  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild. 
In  vain  they  push'd  inquiry  to  the  birth 
And   spring-time  of    the   world  ;  ask'd,  Whence    15 

man  ? 
Why  form'd  at  all  ?  and  wherefore  as  he  is  ? 
Where  must  he  find  his  Maker  ?  With  what  rites 
Adore  him  '?  Will  he  hear,  accept,  and  bless  ? 
Or  does  he  sit  regardless  of  his  works  ? 
Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed  I 
Or  does  the  tomb  take  all  ?   If  he  survive 


gpOK    II.'  THE   TIME-PIEGE*  BB 

His  ashes  J  where  ?  and  in  what  weal  or  woe  ? 

Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone 

A  Deity  could  solve.     Their  answers,  vague. 

And  all  at  random,  fabulous,  and  dark. 

Left  them  as  dark  themselves.     Their  rules  of  life. 

Defective  and  unsanction'd,  prov'd  too  weak 

To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead 

Blind  nature  to  a  God  not  yet  reveaPd, 

'Tis  revelation  satisfies  all  doubts, 

Explains  all  mysteries,  except  her  own, 

And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life, 

That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more. 

Now  tell  n>e,  dignified  and  sapient  Sir, 

My  man  of  morals,  nurtured  in  the  shades 

Of  Academus — is  this  false  or  true  ? 

Is  Christ  the  able  teacher,  or  the  schools  ? 

If  Christ,  then  why  resort  at  every  turn 

To  Athens  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  short 

Of  man's  occasions,  when  in  him  reside 

Grace,  knowledge,  comfort — ^an  unfathom'd  store  I 

How  oft,  when  Paul  has  serv'd  us  with  a  text, 

Has  Epictetus,  Plato,  Tully.  preach'd  ! 

Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  sit  content 

And  humble  learners  of  a  Saviour's  worth, 

Preach  it  who  might.     Such  was  their  love  of  truth. 

Their  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  their  candour  too  I 

And  thus  it  is. — The  pastor,  cither  vain 
By  nature,  or  by  flattery  made  so,  taught 
To  gaze  at  hii  ov/n  splendour,  and  t'  exalt 
Absurdly,  not  his  office,  but  hiniself  j 


56  THE   TASK, 


BOOK  II. 


Or  unenlightenM,  and  too  proud  to  learn  ; 

Or  vicious,  and  not  therefore  apt  to  teach  ; 

Perverting  often,  by  the  stress  of  lewd 

And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct  ; 

Exposes,  and  holds  up  to  broad  disgrace, 

The  noblest  function,  and  discredits  much 

The  brightest  truths  that  man   has  ever    seen. 

For  ghostly    council  ;  if  it  either  fall 

Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  back'd 

With  show  of  love,  at  least  with  hopeful  proof 

Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver's  part  ; 

Or  be  dishonourM,  in  th'  exterior  form 

And  mode  of  its  conveyance,  by  such  tricks 

As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 

Ajid  histrionic  mummery,  that  let  down 

The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage  ; 

Drops  from  the  lips  a  disregarded  thing. 

The  weak  perhaps  are  mov'd,  but  are  not  taught, 

While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 

Takes  deeper  root,  confirmed  by  what  they  see. 

A  relaxation  of  religion's  hold 

Upon  tlie  roving  and  untutor'd  heart 

Soon  follows,  and  the  curb  of  conscience  snapt, 

The  laity  run  wild. — But  do  they  now  ? 

Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinced. 

As  nations,  ignoi*ant  of  God,  contrive 
A  wooden  one,  so  we,  no  longer  taught 
By  monitors  that  mother  church  supplies. 
Now  make  our  own.      Posterity  will  ask 
{If  e'er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine) 


BOOK  II.  THE  TIME-PIECE.  9f. 

Some  fifty  or  a  hundred  lustrums  hence, 

What  was  a  monitor  in  George's  days  ? 

My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn, 

Of  whom  I  needs  must  augur  better  things, 

Since  Heaven  would  sure  grow  weary  of  a  world 

Productive  only  of  a  race  like  ours, 

A  monitor  is  wood — plank  shaven  thin. 

We  wear  it  at  our  backs.     There,  closely  brac'd 

And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 

The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 

And  binds  the  shoulders  flat.     We  prove  its  use 

Sovereign  and  most  effectual  to  secure 

A  form,  not  now  gymnastic  as  of  yore. 

From  rickets  and  distortion,  else  our  lot. 

But,  thus  admonished,  we  can  walk  erect — 

One  proof  at  least  of  manhood  !   while  the  friend 

Sticks  close,  a  Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge. 

Our  habits,  costlier  than  Lucellus  wore. 

And  by  caprice  as  multiphed  as  his, 

Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 

But  change  with  eveiy  moon.     The  sycophant. 

Who  waits  to  dress  us,  arbitrates  their  date  ; 

Surveys  his  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye  ; 

Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete. 

This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  conceiv'd  ; 

And,  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns. 

With  our  expenditure  defrays  tiis  own. 

Variety's  the  very  spice  of  Hfe, 

That  gives  it  all  its  flavour.     We  have  run 

Through  every  change,  that  fancy  at  the  looi% 


58  THE  TASK. 


BOOK   II 


Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply  : 

And  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard 

A  real  elegance,  a  little  us'd, 

For  monstrous  novelty  and  strange  disguise, 

We  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 

And  comforts  cease.     Dress  drains  our  cellar  dry, 

And  keeps  our  larder  lean  ;  puts  out  our  fires  j 

And  introduces  hunger,  frost  and  woe. 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

What  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  to  live. 

Would  fail  t'  exhibit  at  the  public  shows 

A  form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there, 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost  ? 

A  man  o'  the  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough. 

With  reasonable  forecast  and  dispatch, 

T'  ensure  a  side -box  station  at  half-price. 

You  think,  perhaps,  so  delicate  his  dress, 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate.     Alas  i 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and  busy  as  he  seems 

With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet  ! 

The  rout  is  folly's  circle,  which  she  draws 

With  magic  wand.     So  potent  is  the  spell. 

That  none,  decoyM  into  that  fatal  ring, 

Unless  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  gray,  but  never  wise  ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend  ; 

Solicit  pleasure,  hopeless  of  success  ; 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports  which  only  childhood  could- excuse. 


BOOK  11.  THE     TIME-PIECE.  59 

There  they  are  happiest  who  dissemble  best 

Their  weariness  ;  and  they  the  most  polite 

Who  squander  time  and  treasure  with  a  smile, 

Though  at  their  own  destruction.     She,  that  asks 

Her  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all. 

And  hates  their  coming.     They  (what  can  they  less  ?) 

Make  just  reprisals  ;  and,  with  cringe  and  shrug, 

And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 

All  catch  the  frenzy^  downward  from  her  grace, 

Whose  flambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  skies. 

And  gild  our  chamber  ceilings  as  they  pass. 

To  her,  who,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift 

May  feed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford. 

Is  hackneyed  home  unlacquey'd  ;  who  in  haste 

Alighting  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door. 

And,  at  the  watchman's  lantern  borrowing  light, 

Finds  a  cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left. 

Wives  beggar  husbands,  husbands  starve  their  wives. 

On  fortune's  velvet  altar  offering  up 

Their  last  poor  pittance — fortune,  most  severe 

Of  goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 

Than  all  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno's  heaven.-— 

So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house  the  world. 

And  *tis  a  fearful  spectacle  to  see 

So  many  maniacs  dancing  in  their  chains. 

They  gaze  upon  the  links  that  hold  them  fast 

With  eyes  of  anguish,  execrate  their  lot, 

Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again  ! 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues 
That  waste  our  vitals  )  peculation,  sak 


^9  THE    TASK. 


B<?OK  II. 


Of  honour,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law, 
By  tricks  and  lies  as  numerous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authois  feel  ; 
Then  cast  them,  closely  bandied,  every  brat 
At  the  right  door.     Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrained,  with  all  that's  base 
In  character,  has  litter 'd  all  the  land, 
And  bred,  within  the  memory  of  no  few, 
A  priesthood,  such  as  Baal's  was  of  old  ^ 
A  people,  sxich  as  never  was  till  now. 
It  is  a  hungry  vice  : — it  eats  up  all 
That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength, 
Convenience,  and  security  and  use  ; 
Makes  men  mere  vermin,   worthy  to  be  trapp'd 
And  gibbetted  as  fast  as  catchpoll  claws 
Can  seize  the  slippery  prey  :  unties  the  knot 
Of  union,  and  converts  the  sacred  band 
That  holds  mankind  together  to  a  scourge. 
Profusion,  deluging  a  state  with  lusts 
Of  grossest  nature  and  of  worst  effects, 
Prepares  it  for  its  ruin  :  hardens,  bhnds, 
And  warps  the  consciences  of  public  men. 
Till  they  can  laugh  at  virtue  ;  mock  the  fools 
That  trust  them  ;    and  in  the  end,  disclose  a  face 
That  w^ould  have  shockM  credulity  herself, 
Unmask'd,  vouchsafing  this  tlieir  sole  excuse- 
Since  all  alike  are  selfish,   why  not  they  ? 
This  does  profusion,  and  th'  accursed  cause 
Of  such  deep  mischief  has  itself  a  -cause. 


Boo^  n- 


THE   TIME-PIECE.  61 


In  colleges  and  halls,  in  ancient  days. 
When  learning,  virtue,  piety,  and  truth, 
Were  precious,  and  inculcated  with  care, 
There  dwelt  a  sage  calPd  Discipline,     His  head, 
Not  yet  by  time  completely  silver'd  o'er, 
Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youth, 
But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpaired. 
His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a  smile 
Play'd  on  his  lips  ;  and  in  his  speech  was  heard 
Paternal  sweetness,  dignity  and  love. 
The  occupation  dearest  to  his  heart 
Was  to  encourage  goodness.      He  would  stroke 
The  head  of  modest  and  ingenuous  worth. 
That  blush'd  at  its  own  praise  ;  and  press  the  youtk 
Close  to  his  side  that  pleased  him.     Learning  grew 
Beneath  his  care,  a  thriving  vigourous  plant  ; 
The  mind  was  well  informed,  the  passions  held 
Subordinate,  and  diligence  was  choice. 
If  e'er  it  chanc'd,  as  sometimes  chance  it  must, 
That  one  among  so  Ti:)any  overleap'd 
The  limits  of  controul,  his  gentle  eye 
Grew  stern,  and  darted  ^  severe  rebuke  : 
His  frown  was  full  of  terror,  and  his  voice 
Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe 
As  left  him  not,  till  penitence  had  won 
Lost  favour  back  again,  and  clos'd  the  breach. 
But  Discipline,  a  faithful  servant  long, 
Dechn'd  at  length  into  the  vale  of  years  : 
A  palsy  struck  his  arm  ;  his  sparkling  eye  • 
Was  quench'd  in  rheu:ns  of  age  ;  his  voice,  unstrun. 

VOL.  II,  y 


64  THE    TASK* 


BOOK  II « 


Grew  tremulous,  and  mov'd  derision  more 
Than  reverence  in  perverse  rebellious  youth. 
So  colleges  an^  halls  neglected  much 
Their  good  old  friend  ;  and  DiscipHne  at  lengthy 
O'erlook'd  and  unemployed,  fell  sick  and  died. 
Then  study  languished,  emulation  slept, 
And  virtue  fled.     The  schools  became  a  scene 
Of  solemn  farce,  where  Ignorance  in  stilts. 
His  cap  well  linM  with  logic  not  his  own, 
With  parrot  tongue  performed  the  scholar's  part, 
Proceeding  soon  a  graduated  dunce. 
Tken  compromise  liad  place,  and  scrutiny 
Became  stone-blind  ;  precedence  went  in  truck, 
And  he  was  competent  whose  purse  was  so. 

A  dissolution  of  all  bonds  ensued  j 
The  curbs,  invented  for  the  mulish  mouth 
Of  headstrong  youth,  were  broken  ;  bars  and  boIt« 
Grew  rusty  by  disuse  ;  and  massy  gates 
Forgot  their  office,  opening  with  a  touch; 
Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade^ 
The  tassel'd  cap,  and  the  spruce  band  a  jest, 
A  mockery  of  the  world  !    What  need  of  these 
For  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothellers  impure, 
Spendthrifts,  and  booted  sportsmen,  oftener  seen 
With  belted  waist,  and  pointers  at  their  heels, 
Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty  ?  What  was  leara'd. 
If  aught  was  learn'd  in  childhood,  is  forgot ; 
And  such  expense  as  pinches  parents  blue, 
And  miortifies  the  liberal  hand  of  love, 
Is  squandered  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 
And  vicious  pleasures ;  buys  the  boy  a  name,^ 


i 


iOOK  II. 


THE    TIMI-PIECE.  6^ 


That  sits  a  stigma  on  his  father's  house, 

And  cleaves  through  life  inseparably  close 

To  him  that  wears  it.     What  can  after-games 

Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  world. 

The  lewd  vain  world  that  must  receive  him  soon. 

Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquired. 

Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  profcss'd  ^ 

They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 

His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a  task 

That  bids  defiance  to  th'  united  powers 

Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews. 

Now,  blame  we  most  the  nurslings  or  the  nurse  ? 

The  children,  crook'd,  and  twisted,  and  deformed. 

Through  want  of  care  ;  or  her  whose  winking  eye 

And  slumbering  oscitancy  mars  the  brood  ? 

The  nurse  no  doubt.      Regardless  of  her  charge, 

She  needs  herself  correction  ;  needs  to  learn. 

That  it  is  dangerous  sporting  with  the  world, 

With  things  so  sacred  as  a  nation's  trust. 

The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 

All  are  not  such.     I  had  a  brother  once — - 
Peace  to  the  memory  of  a  man  of  worthy 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too  I 
Of  manners  sweet  as  virtue  always  wears^ 
When  gay  good-nature  dresses  her  in  smiles. 
He  grac'd  a  college,*  in  which  order  yet 
Was  sacred  ;  and  was  honour'd,  lov'd,  and  wept. 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 


Bsn'et  Coll,  Cambridge. 


64?  THE   TASK. 


BOOie  SK 


Some  minds  a^'e  temper'd  happily,  and  mix'd 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst 
With  such  a  zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 
That  no  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdom's  sake  ; 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them  :  what  they  see 
Of  vice  in  others  but  enhancing  more 
The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  just  esteeno. 
If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 
Pure  from  so  foul  a  pool,  to  shine  abroad, 
And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves,. 
Small  thanks  to  those  whose  negligence  or  slotk 
Exposed  their  inexperience  to  the  snare,.. 
And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See,  then,  the  quiver  broken  and  decay'd 
In  which  are  kept  our  arrows !   rusting  therc> 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unfit  for  use, 
What  wonder,  if  discharg'd  into  the  world. 
They  shame  their  shooters  with  a  random  flight. 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine  I 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war, 
With  such  artillery  arm'd.     Vice  parries  wide 
Th'  undreaded  volley  with  a  sword  of  straw, 
And  stands  an  impudent  and  fearless  mark. 

Have  we  not  track'd  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birth-place  and  his  dam  ?  The  country  mourns— 
Mourns,  because  every  plague  that  can  infest 
Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 


BOOK    It.  THE  TIME-riECE.  6S 

Of  th'  edifice  that  policy  has  raisM , 
Swarms  in  all  quarters  j  meets  the  eye,  the  ear^ 
And  suffocates  the  breath  at  every  turn. 
Profusion  breeds  them  j  and  the  cause  itself 
Of  that  calamitous  mischief  has  been  found  : 
Found,  too,  where  most  offensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  rob'd  pedagogue  !   Else,  let  th'  arraign'd 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 
So,  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretch'd  his  arm. 
And  wav'd  his  rod  divine,  a  race  obscene, 
Spawn'd  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  forth. 
Polluting  Egypt :  gardens,  fields,  and  plains, 
Were  covered  with  the  pest ;  the  streets  were  filled  f 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurk'd  in  every  nook  ; 
Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers,  'scap'd  ; 
And  the  land  stank — ^so  numerous  was  the  fry. 


y  2 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  THIRD  BOOK. 

Self -Recollect  ton  and  reproof. — Address  to  dotnesiic  happU 
ness,^^Some  account  of  myself — The  vanity  of  many 
of  their  pursuits  who  are  reputed  wise  ,'^^  Justification 
of  my  censures. — Divine  illumination  necessary  to  tf^ 
most  expert  philosopher . — T^he  question,  What  is  truth  ? 
answered  by  other  questions, — Domestic  happiness  ad* 
dressed  again. — Few  lovers  of  the  country. — My  tame 
hare* — Occupations  of  a  retired  gentleman  in  his  gar* 
den. — Pruning. — Framing. — Greenhouse.  — Sowing  of 
fiower'^eeds.-'^The  countty  preferable  to  the  town  even 
in  the  winter. — Reasons  why  it  is  deserted  at  that 
season, — Ruinous  effects  of  gaming  and  of  expensive  im»- 
provement.-^Booh  concludes  with  an  apostrophe  to  tJie 
metropolis. 


THE  TASK, 


BOOK  III. 


THE   GARDEN. 


A 


,.S  one,  who,  long  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 
Entangled,  winds  now  this  way   and  now  that 
His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home  j 
Or,  having  long  in  miry  ways  been  foiPd 
And  sore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough 
Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape  ; 
If  chance  at  length  he  find  a  greensward  smooth 
And  faithful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise, 
He  chirrups  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed, 
And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease  ) 
So  I,  designing  other  themes,  and  calPd 
T'  adorn  the  Sofa  with  eulogium  due, 
To  tell  its  slumbers,  and  to  paint  its  dreams. 
Have  rambled  wide.     In  country,  city,  seat 
Of  academic  fame  (howe'er  deserv'd) 
Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengag'd  at  last^ 


60  THE  TASK,  BOOR  III. 

But  now,  with  pleasant  pace,  a  cleanlier  road 
I  mean  to  tread.     I  feel  myself  at  large. 
Courageous,  and  refresh'd   for  future  toil, 
If  toil  await  me,  or  if  dangers  new. 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding  boards  reflect 
Most  part  an  empty  ineffectual  sound. 
What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  little  known. 
Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much. 
Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  better  hope 
Crack  the  satiric  thong  ?    'Twere  wiser  far 
For  me,  enamour'd  of  sequestered  scenes. 
And  charmed  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose. 
Where  chance  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or  vine, 
My  languid  limbs,  when  summer  sears  the  plains  ; 
Or,  when  rough  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 
And  sheltered  Sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 
Feeds  a  blue  flame  ;  and  makes  a  cheerful  hearth  j 
There,  undisturb'd  by  folly,  and  appriz'd 
How  great  the  danger  of  disturbing  her, 
To  muse  in  silence,  or  at  least  confine 
Remarks  that  gall  so  many  to  the  few 
My  partners  in  retreat.     Disgust  concealed 
Is  oft-times  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 
Is  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach. 

Domestic  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise  that  has  surviv'd  the  fall  ] 
Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpaired  and  pure^ 
Or,  tasting,  long  enjoy  thee  ;  too  infirm. 
Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets 
Unraix'd  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 


BOOK   IJI.  THE   GARDEN.  6S^ 

Or  temper  sheds  into  thy  crystal  cup. 
Thou  art  the  nurse  of  virtue — In  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is, 
Heaven-born,  and  destined  to  the  skies  again. 
Thou  art  not  known  where  pleasure  is  ador'd, 
That  reeling  goddess  v^ith  a  zoneless  waist 
And  wandering  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  novelty,  her  fickle  frail  support  ; 
For  thou  art  nrieek  and  constant,  hating  change. 
And  finding,  in  the  calm  of  truth-tried  love, 
Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 
Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  msdc 
Of  honour,  dignity,  and  fair  renown  !. 
Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside 
In  all  our  crowded  streets  ;:  and  senates  seetn 
Convened  for  purposes  of  empire  less 
Than  to  release  th'  adultress  from  her  bond. 
Th'  adultress  !   what  a  theme  for  angry  verse  I 
What  provocation  to  th'  indignant  heart 
That  feels  for  injur'd  love  !   but  I  disdain 
The  nauseous  task  to  paint  her  as  she  is. 
Cruel,  abandoned,  glorying  in  her  shame  !. 
No  : — let  her  pass,  and,  chariotted  along 
In  guilty  splendour,  shake  the  public  ways  ? 
The  frequency  of  crimes  has  washed  them  white  ! 
And  verse  of  mine  shall  never  brand  the  wretch. 
Whom  matrons,  now,  of  character  unsmirch'd. 
And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  asham'd  to  own. 
Virtue  and  vice  had  boundaries  in  old  time. 
Not  to  be  pass'd  :  and  she,  that  had  renounc'd 


TO  THE   TASK,  BOOK  Ifl. 

Her  sex's  honour,  was  renounc'd  herself 

By  all  that  priz'd  it ;  not  for  prudery's  sake^ 

But  dignity's,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 

^Twas  hard,  perhaps,  on  here  and  there  a  waif^ 

Desirous  to  return,  and  not  receiv'd  ; 

But  was  a  wholesome  rigour  in  the  main, 

And  taught  th'  unblemish'd  to  preserve  with  care 

That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  alL 

Men,  too,  were  nice  in  honour  iu  those  days, 

And  judg'd  oSFenders  well.     Then  he  that  diarp'dy 

And  pocketed  a  prize,  by  fraud  obtain'd. 

Was  mark'd  andshunn'd  as  odious.     He  that  soli 

His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  required 

His  every  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch. 

Paid,  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spared. 

The  price  of  his  default.     But  now — yes,,  now 

We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair, 

So  liberal  in  construction,  and  so  rich 

In  Christian  charity,  (good-natur'd  age  !} 

That  they  are  safe,  sinners  of  either  sex, 

Transgress  what  laws  they   may.     Well  dress'd,  well 

bred^ 
Well  equipag'd,  is  ticket  good  enough 
To  pass  us  readily  through  every  door. 
Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  we  may, 
(And  no  man's  hatred  ever  wrong'd  her  yet) 
May  claim  this  merit  still — that  she  admits 
The  woith  of  what  she  mimics  with  such  care,. 
And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applause  ; 
But  she  has  burnt  her  mask,  not  needed  here^ 


BOOK  in.  THE  GARDEN.  7i 

Where  vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 
And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use. 

I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infix'd. 
My  panting  side  was  charg'd,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  th'  archers.     In  his  side  he  bore. 
And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd,  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene  ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 
I  see  that  all  are  wanderers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  awn  delusions ;  they  are  lost 
In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  woo'd 
And  never  won.     Dream  after  dream  ensues  ; 
And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed. 
And  still  are  disappointed.      Rings  the  v^^orld 
With  the  vain  stir.     I  sum  up  half  mankind, 
And  add  two  thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 
And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
Dreams,  empty  dreams.     The  millions  flit  as  gay 
As  if  created  only  like  the  fly. 
That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  th'  eye  of  noon, 


"74  THE   TASK. 


BOOK  III, 


To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 

The  rest  arc  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 

And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare. 

Some  write  a  narrative  of  wars  and  feats 

Of  heroes  little  known  ;  and  call  the  rant 

A  histoiy  :  describe  the  man,  of  whom 

His  own  coevals  took  but  little  note  ; 

And  paint  his  person,  character  and  views, 

As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother's  womb. 

They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein, 

In  which  obscurity  has  wrapp'd  them  up. 

The  tiireads  of  politic  and  shrewd  design. 

That  ran  through  all  his  purposes,  and  charge 

His  mind  with  meanings  that  lie  never  had, 

Or,  having,  kept  conceal'd.     Some  drill  and  bore 

The  solid  earth,  and  fiom  the  strata  there 

Extract  a  register,  by  which  we  learn 

That  he  who  made  it,  and  reveal'd  its  date 

To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 

Some,  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still. 

Contrive  creation  ;   travel  nature  up 

To  the  sharp  peak  of  her  sublimest  height, 

And  tell  us  whence  the  stars  ;  why  some  are  fix'd. 

And  planetary  some  ;  what  gave  them  first 

Rotation,  from  what  fountain  flow'd  their  light. 

Great  contest  follows,  and  much  learned  dust 

Involves  the  combatants  ;  each  claiming  truth. 

And  truth  disclaiming  both.     And  thus  they  spend 

The  little  wick  of  life's  poor  shallow  lamp. 

In  playing  tricks  with  nature,  giving  laws 


fiOOK   HI.  THE  GARDEN. 

To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 
Is*t  not  a  pity  now,  that  tickling  rheums 
Should  ever  tease  the  lungs  and  blear  the  sight 
Of  oracles  like  these  ?  Great  pity  too, 
That,  having  wielded  th'  elements,  aird  built 
A  thousand  systems,  each  in  his  6wn  way, 
They  should  go  out  in  fume,  and  be  forgot  ? 
Ah  !   what  is  life  thus  spent  ?  aiid  what  are  they 
But  frantic,  who  thus  spend  it-?  all  for  smoke- 
Eternity  for  bubbles,  proves  at  last 
A  senseless  bargain.     When  I  see  such  games 
Play'd  by  the  creatures  of  a  power  who  swears 
That  he  will  judge  the  earth,  and  call  the  fool 
To  a  sharp  reckoning  that  has  liv'din  \-ain  ; 
And  when  I  wxigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well, 
And  prove  it  in  th'  infallible  result 
So  hollow  and  so  false— I  feel  my  heart 
Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn'd, 
If  this  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceived. 
Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps 
While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amus'd. 
Defend  me,  tlierefore,  common  sense,  say  I^ 
From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 
Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 
And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up! 

^Twere  well,  says  one  sage  erudite  profound. 
Terribly  arch'd  and  aquiline  his  nose. 
And  over-built  with  most  impending  brows, 
'Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  world  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases.     What's  the  world  to  you  ?- 

VOL.   II,  Q 


H 


THE    TASif.  BOOK  €U* 


Much.     I  was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk, 

As  sweet  as  charity,  from  human  breasts. 

I  think,  articulate,  1  laugh  and  weep, 

And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 

How  then  should  I  and  any  man  that  hvcs 

Be  strangers  to  each  other  ?  Pierce  my  veiii^ 

Take  of  the  crimson  stream  meandering  there. 

And  catechise  it  well ;  apply  thy  glass. 

Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  not  blood 

Congenial  with  thine  own  :   and,  if  it  be. 

What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou  suppose 

Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art. 

To  cut  the  link  of  brotherhood,  by  which 

One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind  ? 

True  ;   I  am  no  proficient,  I  confess. 

In  arts  like  yours.     I  cannot  call  the  swift 

And  perilous   lightnings  fix)m  the  angry  clouds. 

And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath; 

I  cannot  analyze  the  air,  nor  catch 

The  parallax  of  yonder  luminous  point. 

That  seems  half  quench'd  in  th'  immense  abyss  ; 

Such  powers  I  boast  not — neither  can  I  rest 

A  silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage 

O  r  heedless  folly  by  which  thousands  die. 

Bone  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine^ 

God  never  meant  that  man  should  scale  the  heavcm 
By  strides  of  human  wisdom.     In  his  works. 
Though  wondrous,  he  commands  us  in  his  word 
To  seek  him  rather,  where  his  mercy  shines^ 
The  mind,  indeed,  enlightened  from  above. 


BOOK   IIU  THE   GARDEN.,  <a 

Views  him  in  all ;  ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 

The  grand  effect ;   acknowledges  with  joy 

His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  his  style. 

But  never  yet  did  philosophic  tube, 

That  brings  the  planets  home  into  the  e)e 

Of  observation^  and  discovers,  else 

Not  visible,  his  family  of  worlds^ 

Discover  him  that  rules  them  ;  such  3  veil 

Hangs  aver  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth^ 

And  dark  in  things  divine.     Full  often,  too. 

Our  v>"ayward  intellect,  the  more  we  leara 

Of  nature,  overlooks  her  Author  more  ; 

From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 

Conclusions  retrograde,  and  mad  mistake. 

But  if  his  word  once  teach  us,  shoot  a  ray 

Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 

Truths  undiscern'd  but  by  that  holy  light, 

Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy,  baptiz'd 

In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love. 

Has  eyes,  indeed  ;  and  viewing  all  she  see* 

As  meant  ta  indicate  a  God  to  man,  ^^-'T 

Gives  HIM  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own,  '  t3- 

Learning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days    • 

On  all  her  branches  :   piety  has  found  "-■'  *^w^ 

Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  pray^' 

Has  flow'd  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 

Such  was   thy  wisdom,  Newton,  childlike  sage  ! 

Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 

And  in  his  word  sagacious.     Such  too  thine, 

Miltoi>,  whose  genius  had  angelie  wings, 


n^ 


>^  T-ME   TASK.  BaOK   tit. 

And  fed  on  manna  1    And  sncli  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause, 
Immortal  Hale  !   for  deep  discernment  prais'd,^^ 
And  sound  integrity,  not  more  than  fam'd 
For  sanctity  of  manners  undefiPd* 

All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  its  glory  fade* 
Like  the  fair  flower  dishevelPd  in  the  wind  ; 
Riches  have  wings^  and  grandeur  is  a  dream  : 
The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a  tomb^ 
And  we  that  worship  him  ignoble  graves, 
.Notliing  is  proof  against  the  general  curse 
Of  vanity,  that  seizes  all  below. 
The  only   amaranthine  flower  on  earth. 
Is  virtue  ;  th'  only  lasting  treasure,  truth.. 
But  what  is  truth  ?  'twas  Pilate's  question,  put 
To  trath  itself,  that  deign'd  liim  no  reply, 
And  wherefore  i  will  not  God  impart  his  lights 
To  them  that  ask  it  ? — Freely— 'tis  his  joy^ 
His  glory,  and  his  nature,  to  impart. 
But- to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere> 
^r  negligent  inquirer,  not  a  spark. 
What's  that  which  brings  contempt  upon  a  booSr, 
A«d  biJ^  who  write«  it  ;  though  the  style  be  neat. 
The  method  clear,  and  argument  exact  ? 
Thcit  makes  a  minister  in  holy  things 
The  joy  of  many,  and  the  dread  of  more. 
His  name  a  theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach  ? 
That  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God's  account^ 
Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  ? 
What  pearl  i?  it  that  rich  men  cannot  ba  j^ 


BOOK  in. 


THE  garden;  77 


That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up  ; 
But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despis'd  of  all. 
Seek  and  obtain,  and  often  find  unsought  ? 
Tell  me — and  I  will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 

O,  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace^ 
Domestic  life  in  rural  leisure  pass'd  I 
Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets  5 
Though  many  boast  thy  favours,  and  affect 
To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own. 
jBut  foolish  man  foregoes  his  proper  bliss, 
Even  as  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits. 
Though  plac'd  in  paradise,  (for  earth  has  still 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  left) 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy^ 
Scenes  form'd  for  contemplation,  and  to  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  wisdom  ;  that  suggest, 
By  every  pleasing  image  they  present, 
Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart, 
Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind  ; 
Scenes  such  as  these  'tis  his  supreme  delight 
To  fiU'with  riot,  and  defile  with  blood. 
Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  tfie  poor  brutes 
We  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes 
That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  daH 
Fearless,  and  rapt  away  from  all  his  cares  j 
Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again. 
Nor  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish's  eye  ; 
Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song,. 
Be  quelPd  in  all  our  summer-montlis'  retreat  $ 
c  2 


76  THE    TASK*  BOOK'lIU 

H  ow  many  self-deluded  nymphs  and  swains, 

Who  dream  they  have  a  taste  for  fields  and  groves> 

Would  find  them  hideous  nurseries  of  the  spleen, 

And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  town  I 

They  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek 

For  their  own  sake  its  silence  and  its  shade. 

Delights,  which  who  would  leave,  that  has  a  heart 

Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a  mind 

Cultur'd  and  capable  of  sober  thought, 

For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack, 

And  clamours  of  tl^  field  I  Detested  sport. 

That  owes  its  pleasures  to  another's  pain  | 

That  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 

Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endu'd 

With  eloquence,  that  agonies  inspire. 

Of  silent  tears  and  heart -distending  sighs  ? 

Vain  tears,  alas,  and  sighs,  that  never  find 

A  corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls  ! 

Well — one  at  least  is  saf  %     One  sheltci'M  hare 

Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yeU 

Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in.  her  woes.. 

Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 

Whom  ten  long  years*  experience  of  my  Cart 

Has  made  at  last  familiar  ;  she  has  lost 

Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread,. 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 

Yes — thou  may'st  eat  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand 

That  feeds  thee  ;  thou  may'st  frolic  on  the  floor 

At  evening,  and  at  night  retire  secure 

To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm'di 


BOOK  III.  THE  GARDEN.  '  70' 

For  I  have  gain'd  thy  confidence,  havepledg'd 
All  that  is  human  in  me  to  protect 
Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 
If  I  survive  thee  1  will  dig  thy  grave  : 
And,  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing,  say, 
I  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle  ;  and  who  justly,  in  return, 
Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too  ? 
Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  pen. 
Delightful  industry  enjoyM  at  home. 
And  nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
DressM  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad— 
Can  he  want  occupation  who  has  these  ? 
Will  he  be  idle  who  has  much  t'  enjoy  i 
Me,  therefore,  studious  of  laborious  ease, 
Not  slothful ;  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 
Not  waste  it  ;  and  aware  that  human  life 
Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repfdd  with  use. 
When  H  E  shall  call  his  debtors  to  account 
From  whom  are  all  our  blessings  ;  business  finds 
Even  here  :  while  sedulous  I  seek  t*  improve, 
At  least  neglect  not^  or  leave  unemployed. 
The  mind  he  gave  me  ;  driving  it,  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work 
By  causes  not  to  be  divulg'd  in  vain. 
To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 
He  that  attends  to  his  interior  self, 
That  has  a  heart,  and  keeps  it ;  has  a  mind 
That  hungeis,  and  supplies  it  y,  and  who  seeks- 


88f  THE  TASlt.  BOOK  III* 

A  social,  not  a  dissipated  life, 
Has  business  ;  feels  himself  engagM  t^  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a  silent,  task* 
A  life  all    turbulence  and  noise,  may  seem. 
To  him  that  leads  It,  wise,  and  to  be  praisM  ; 
But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 
^  Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies. 
He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms, 
Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 
Vainly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize. 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequester'd  man 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys. 
With  her  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart. 
Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph 
Which  neatly  she  prepares  ;  then  to  his  book. 
Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perus'd 
In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted  oft 
As  aught  occurs  that  she  may  smile  to  hear, 
Or  turn  to  nourishment,  digested  well. 

Or,  if  the  garden  with  its  many  cares. 
An  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 

The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 

Of  lubbard  labour  needs  his  watchful  eye, 

Oft  loitering  lazily,  if  not  o'erseen, 

Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength. 

Nor  does  he  govern  only  or  direct. 

But  much  performs  himself.     No  works  indeed 

That  ask  robust  tough  sinews,  bred  to  toil, 


8O0K  in.  THE   GARDEN.  81 

Servile  employ  ;  but  such  as  may  amuse. 
Not  tire,  demanding  rather  skill  than  force. 
Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees 
That  meet  (no  barren  interval  between) 
With  pleasure  more  than  even  their  fruits  afford. 
Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can  feel :: 
These,  therefore,  are  his  own  peculiar  charge  ; 
No  meaner  hand  may  discipHne  the  shoots, 
None  but  hia  steel  approach  them.     What  is  weak,i, 
Distempered,  or  has  lost  prohfic  powers, 
Impair'd  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 
Dooms  to  the  knife  :  nor  does  he  spare  the  soft 
And  succulent,   that  feeds  its  giant  growth. 
But  barren,  at  th*  expense  of  neighbouring  twigs 
Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick 
With  hopeful  gems.     The  rest,  no  portion  left 
That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 
Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 
At  measured  distances,  that  air  and  sun. 
Admitted  freely,  may  afford  their  aid, 
And  ventilate  and  warm  the  swelling  buds. 
Hence  summer  has  her  riches,  autumn  hence, 
And  hence  even  winter  fills  his  withered  hand 
With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own.* 
Fair  recompence  of  labour  well  bestow'd. 
And  wise  precaution  ;  which  a  clime  so  rude 
Makes  needful  still,  whose  spring  is  but  the  child 
Of  churlish  winter,  in  her  froward  moods 


*  Miraturque  nqvos  fructus  «t  non  sui  poraa.    ViRt;^. 


9|[  THE   TASK,  BOOK   IIU 

Discovering  much  the  temper  of   her  sire. 
For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild 
Maternal  nature  had  reversed  its  course, 
She  brings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles  ; 
But,  once  deliver*d,  kills  them  with  a  frown. 
He  therefore,  timely  warn'd»  himself  supplies 
Her  want  of  care,  screening  and  keeping  warm 
The  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may  sweep 
His  garlands  from  the  boughs.     Again,  as  oft 
As  the  sun  peeps  and  vernal  airs  breathe  mild, 
The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  every  beam> 
And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of   day. 

To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  goiird> 
So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted,  else  base  and  disesteem'd^ 
Food  for  the  vulgar  merely — is  an.  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  maturd,. 
And  at  this  moment  unassay'd  in  song* 
Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice,  long  since>. 
Their  eulogy  ;  those  sang  the  Mantuan  bard> 
And  these  the  Grecian,  in  emiobhng  strains, 
And  in  thy  numbers,  Philhps,  shines  for  aye 
The  solitary  shilling.     Pardon  then, 
Ye  sage  dispensers  of  poetic  fame, 
Th'  ambition  of  one,  meaner  far,  whose  pov/ers, 
Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime, 
Pant  for  the  praise  of  dressing  to  the  taste 
Of  critic  appetite,  no  sordid  fare, 
A  eucumber,  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 


SOOK  Xll«  THE  GAaO£K«  BS 

The  stable  yields  a  stercoraceous  heap. 
Impregnated  with  quick  fermenting  salts. 
And  potent  to  resist  the  freezing  blast  : 
For,  ere  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf 
Deciduous,  when  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Expos'd  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 
Warily,   therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed. 
He  seeks  a  favoured  spot  ;  that  where  he  builds 
Th'  agglomerated  pile  his  frame  may  front 
The  sun's  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  reeds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.     First  he  tids  spread 
Dry  fern  or  Htter'd  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
Th'  ascending  damps  ;  then  leisurely  impose. 
And  lightly,  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  the  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 
What  longest  binds  the  closest  forms  secure 
The  shapely  side,  that,  as  it  rises,  takes. 
By  just  degrees,  an  overhanging  breadth, 
Sheltering  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves  4 
Th'  uphfted  frame,  compact,  at  every  joint. 
And  overlaid  with  clear  translucent  glass, 
He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount. 
Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  off  secure 
From  the  dash'd  pane  the  deluge  as  it  falls- 
He  shuts  it  close,  and  the  first  labour  ends- 
Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  earth 
Spin  round  upon  her  axle,  ere  the  warmth. 
Slow    gathering    in  the  midst,  through   the  square 
mass 


S4y  THE    TASK,  ^OOK  III, 

DifFus'd,  attain  the  surface  :  when,  behold  1 
A  pestilent  and  most  corrosive  steam, 
X.ike  a  gross  fog  Boeotian,  rising  fast. 
And  fast  condensed  upon  the  dewy  sash. 
Asks  egress  ;  which  obtain'd,  the  overcharge 
And  drench'd  conservatory  breathes  abroad, 
In  volumes  wheeling  slow,  the  vapour  dank  ; 
And,  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost 
Its  foul  inhabitant.     But  t'  assuage 
Th'  impatient  fervour  which  it  first  conceives 
Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threatening  death 
TTo  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay. 
Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft 
The  way  to  glory  by  mi&carriage  foul. 
Must  prompt  him,  and  admonish  how  to  catch 
Th*  auspicious  moment,  when  the  tempered  heat^ 
Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 
Soh  fomentation,  and  invite  the  seed. 
The  seed,  selected  wisely,  plump  and  smooth, 
And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 
Diminfltive,  well  filPd  with  well  prepared 
And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  treasur'd  long. 
And  drank  no  m.oisture  from  the  dripping  clouds  ; 
These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth,  that  hides 
The  smoaking  manure  and  overspreads  it  all, 
He  places  liglitly^  and,  as  time  subdues 
The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 
In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immers'd. 
Then  rise  the  tender  germs,  upstarting  quick. 
And  spreading  wide  their  spongy  lobes  j  at  fir&t 


BOOK  III.  TftE  GARDEK.  ^^ 

Pale,  wan,  and  livid  ;  but  assuming  soon, 

If  fanned  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air, 

Strain'd  through  the  friendly  mats,  a  vivid  green. 

Two  leaves  produc'd,  two  rough  indented  leaves, 

Cautious  he  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 

A  pimple,  that  portends  a  future  sprout, 

And  interdicts  its  growth.     Thence  straight  succeed 

The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish  ; 

Prolific  all,  and  harbingers  of  more. 

The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now, 

And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 

Indulged  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 

Large  foliage,  overshadowing  golden  flowers. 

Blown  on  the  summit  of  th'  apparent  fruit. 

These  have  their  sexes  ;  and,  when  summer  shines, 

The  bee  transports  the  fertiHzing  meal 

Trom  flower  to  flower,  and  even  the  breathing  akr 

Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use. 

Not  so  when  winter  scowls.     Assistant  art 

Then  acts  in  nature's  office,  brings  to  pass 

The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 

Grudge  not,  ye  rich,  (since  luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  world's  more  numerous  half 
Lives  by  contriving  delicates  for  you) 
Grudge  not  the  cost.     Ye  Httle  know  the  cares, 
The  vigilance,  the  labour,  and  the  skill. 
That  day  and  night  are  exercis'd,  and  hang 
Upon  the  ticklish  balance  of  suspense. 
That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  suns. 

VOL.  II.  H 


sd 


THE   TASK,  BOOK  III, 


Ten  thousand  dangers  lie  in  wait  to  thwart 

The  process.     Heat,  and  cold,  and  wind,  and  steam, 

Moisture  and  drought,  mice,   woniis,   and    swarminn- 

flies. 
Minute  as  dust,  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment,  that  admits  no  cure, 
And  which  no  care  can  obviate.     It  were  long, 
Too  long  to  tell  th'  expedients  and  the  shifts 
Which  he  that  fights  a  season  so  severe 
Devises,  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust ; 
And  oft,  at  last,  in  vain.     The  learn'd  and  wise 
Sarcastic  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and  like  its  theme,  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labour,  worthless  when  produced. 

Who  loves  a  garden  loves  a  greenhouse  too- 
Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime, 
There  blooms  exotic  beauty ,  warm  and  snug. 
While  the  winds  whistle,  and  the  snows  descend. 
The   spiry  myrtle  with  unwithering  leaf 
Shines  there  and  flourishes.     The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there, 
The  ruddier  orange,  and  the  paler  lime, 
Peep  through  their  polish'd  foliage  at  the  storm. 
And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear. 
Th*  amomum  there  with  intermingling  flowers 
And  cherries  hangs  her  twigs.     Geranium  boast5 
Her  crimson  honours,  and  the  spangled  beau, 
Ficoides,  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 
All  plants,  of  every  leaf,  that  can  endure 
The  winter's  frown,  if  screen'd  from  his  shrewd  bite, 


BOOK   III.  THE   GARDEN,  Wf 

Live  there,  and  prosper.     Those  Ausonia  claim?, 
Levantine  regions  these  ;  th'  Azores  send 
Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 
Cafrraria  ;  foreigners  from  many  lands, 
They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  convened 
By  magic  summons  of  th'  Orphean  l^ire. 
Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 
But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 
The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flower. 
Must  lend  its  aid  t'  illustrate  all  their  charms. 
And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 
Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 
The  dwarfish,  in  the  rear  retir  *d,  but  still 
Subhme  above  the  rest,  the  stateHer  stand. 
So  once  were  rang'd  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome, 
A  noble  show  !    while  Roscius  trod  the  stage  ; 
And  so,  while  Garrick,  as  renown 'd  as  he. 
The  sons  of  Albion  ;  fearing  each  to  lose 
Some  note  of  nature's  m.usic  from  his  lips. 
And  covetous  of  Shakespeare's  beauty,  seen 
In  every  flash  of  his  far-beaming  eye. 
Nor  taste  alone  and  well-contriv'd  display 
Suffice  to  give  the  marshall'd  ranks  the  grace 
Of  their  complete  effect.     Much  yet  remains 
Unsung,  and  many  cares  are  yet  behind. 
And  more  laborious  ;  cares  on  which  depend 
Their  vigour,  injur'd  soon,  not  soon  restored. 
The  soil  must  be  renew'd,  which,  often  wash'd, 
Loses  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts, 
And  disappoints  the  roots  ;  the  slender  roots 


Stt  THE  TASK, 


BOOK   III. 


Close  interwoven,  where  they  meet  the  vase, 
Must  smooth  be  shorn  away  ;  the  sapless  brancW 
Must  fly  before  the  knife ;  the  wither'd  leaf 
Must  be  detachM,  and  where  it  strews  the  floor 
Swept  with  a  woman's  neatness,  breeding  else 
Contagion,  and  disseminating  death. 
Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 
Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  hke  these  ?) 
Well  they  reward  the  toil.     The  sight  is  pleas'd, 
^he  scent  regal'd,  each  odoriferous  leaf, 
Each  opening  blossom,  freely  breathes  abroad 
Its  gratitude,and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 

So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind> 
All  healthful,  are  th'  employs  of  rural  life, 
Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 
Runs  round  ;  still  ending,  and  beginning  stilL 
Nor  are  these  all.     To  deck  the  shapely  knoll. 
That,  softly  swelled  and  gaily  dress'd,  appear*- 
A  flowery  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawa 
Emerging,  maist  be  deem'd  a  labour  due 
To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 
Here  also  grateful  mixture  of  well-match'd 
And  sorted  hues  (each  giving  each  relief. 
And  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more) 
Is  needful.   Strength  may  wield  the  ponderous  spade^ 
May  turn  the  clod,  and  wheel  the  compost  home  ^ 
But  elegance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows, 
And  most  attractive  is  the  fair  result 
Of  thought,  the  creature  of  a  pohsh'd  mind. 
Without  it  all  is  Gothic  as  the  scene 


BOOK   IIK  THE   GARDEN.  8§ 

To  which  th'  insipid  citizen  resorts 

Near  yonder  heath  ;  where  industry  mis-spent, 

But  proud  of  his  uncouth,  ill. chosen  task, 

Has  made  a^heaven  on  earth  ;  with  suns  and  rnoons 

Of  close-ramm'd  stones  has  charged  the   encumber'd 

soil, 
And  fairly  laid  the  zodiac  in  the  dust. 
He,  therefore,  who  would  see  his  flowers  dispos'd 
Sightly,  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives 
The  beds  the  trusted  treasure  of  their  seeds, 
Forecasts  the  future  whole  ;  that,  when  the  scene 
Shall  break  into  its  preconceived  display. 
Each  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  voice 
Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design. 
Nor  even  then,  dismissing  as  performed 
His  pleasant  work,  may  he  suppose  it  done. 
Few  self-supported  flowers  endure  the  wind 
Uninjur'd,  but  expect  th'  upholding  aid 
Of  the  'smooth»shaven  prop,  and,  neatly  tied, 
Are  wedded  thus,  like  beauty  to  old  age, 
For  interest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 
Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far  diiTus'd 
And  lowly  creeping,  modest  and  yet  fair, 
Like  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen  : 
Some,  more  aspiring,  catch  the  neighbouring  shrub 
With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch. 
Else  unadorn'd  with  maiiy  a  gay  festoon 
And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 
The  strength  they  boiTOw  with  the  grace  they  lend. 
All  hate  the  rank  society  of  weeds, 

H    2 


96  THE    TASK. 


lOOK  nr» 


Noisome,  -and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 
Th'  impoverish'd  earth  ;    an  overbearing  race^ 
That,  like  the  multitude  made  faction  mad, 
Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

Oh,  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world. 
Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys  1   Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past ; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil ;  proving  still 
A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erleap'd  with  ease 
By  vicious  custom,  raging  uncontroll'd 
Abroad,  and  desolating  public  hfe. 

When  fierce  temptation,  seconded  within  ^J 

By  traitor  appetite,  and  arm'd  with  darts  ^ 

Temper'd  in  hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast. 
To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  naay  crown  us  ;  but  to  fly  is  safe. 
Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunaiy  good, 
What  could  I  wish  that  I  possess  not  here  ? 
Health,  leisure,  means  t'  improve  it,  friendship,  pea«c^ 
No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wandering,  muse, 
And  constant  occupation  without  care. 
Thus  blest,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss  ; 
Hopeless  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds, 
And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 
Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them. 
Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I  describe, 
AUur'd  by  my  report  :  but  sure  no  less, 
Tliat  self  condemn'd  they  must  neglect  the  prize:^ 


BOOK  III^  TH£  GARDEN.  9t 

And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 

What  we  admire  we  praise  ;  and,  when  we  praise^ 

Advance  it  into  notice,  that,  its  worth 

Acknowledg'd,  others  may  admire  it  too. 

I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 

Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still, 

The  cause  of  piety  and  sacred  truth, 

And  virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordained 

Should    best  secure  them  and  promote  them  most  5- 

Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive 

Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoy'd. 

Pure  is  the  nymph,  though  liberal  of  her  smiles. 

And  chaste,  though  unconfin'd,  whom  I  extol. 

Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  call'd, 

Vain-glorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth 

To  grace  the  full  pavilion.     His  design 

Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good, 

W  hich  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake* 

My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone  ;   my  sweets, 

And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too, 

Nature,  enchanting  nature,  in  whose  form  • 

And  lineaments  divine,  I  trace  a  hand 

That  errs  not,  and  find  rapture  still  renew*dy 

Is  free  to  all  men — universal  prize. 

Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want 

Admirers,  and  be  destin'd  to  divide 

With  meaner  objects  even  the  few  she  finds  ! 

Stripped  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  flowers^ 

She  loses  all  her  influence.     Cities  then 

Attract  usj  and  neglected  nature  pines^ 


.f8  THE  TASK.  BOOK  IM. 

Abandon'd  as  unworthy  of  our  love. 

But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfum'd 

By  roses,  and  clear  suns,   though  scarcely  felt  ; 

And  groves,  if  unharmonious,  yet  secure 

From  clamour,  and  whose  very  silence  charms  ; 

To  be  prefer'd  to  smoke,  to  the  eclipse 

That  metropolitan  volcanoes  make, 

Wliose  Stygian  throats  breathe  darkness  all  day  long ; 

And  to  the  stir  of  commerce,  driving  slow, 

And  thundering  loud  with  his  ten  thousand  wheels  ? 

They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head. 

And  folly  in  the  heart  ;  were  England  now 

What  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind, 

And  undebauch'd.     But  we  have  bid  farewel 

To  all  the;  virtues  of  those  better  days. 

And  all  their  honest  pleasures.     Mansions  once 

Knew  their  own  masters  ;  and  laborious  hinds, 

Who  had  surviv'd  the  father,  serv'd  the  son. 

Now  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 

Ts  but  a  transient  guest,  newly  arrived. 

And  soon  to  be  supplanted.     He  that  saw 

His  patrimonial  timber  cast  its  leaf. 

Sells  the  last  scantling,  and  transfers  the  price 

To  some  shrewd  sharper,  ere  it  buds  again. 

Estates  are  landscapes,  gaz'd  upon  a  while. 

Then  advertized,  and  auctioneered  away. 

The  country  starves,  and  they  that  feed  th'  o'ercharg'd 

And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  dues, 

By  a  just  judgment  strip  and  starve  themselves. 

The  wings  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight 


BOOR  HI.  THE  GARDEN.  9# 

Grow  on  the  gamester's  elbows  ;  and  th'  alert 

And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 

That  never  tire,  soan  fans  them  all  away. 

Improvement,  too,  the  idol  of  the  age, 

Is  fed  with  many  a  victim.     Lo,  he  comes  ! 

Th'  omnipotent  magician.  Brown,  appears  ! 

Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  th'  abode 

Of  our  forefathers — a  grave  whisker 'd  race, 

But  tasteless.     Springs  a  palace  in  its  stead, 

But  in  a  distant  spot  ;  where,  more  expos'd. 

It  may  enjoy  th*  advantage  of  the  north, 

And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transformed 

Those  naked  acres  to  a  sheltering  grove. 

He  speaks  ;  the  lake  in  front  becomes  a  lawn  f 

Woods  vanish,  hills  subside,  and  vallies  rise  ; 

And  streams,  as  if  created  far  his  use. 

Pursue  the  track  of  his  directing  wand  j 

Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid,  and  now  sloWy 

Now  murmuring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades—' 

Even  as  he  bids  !   Th'  enraptured  owner  smiles. 

'Tis  finished,  and  yet,  finished  as  it  seems,  ^ 

Still  wants  a  grace,  the  loveliest  it  could  show, 

A  mine  to  satisfy  th'  enormous  cost. 

Drain'd  to  the  last  poor  item  of  his  wealth. 

He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  th'  accomplish'd  plan 

That  he  has  touch'd,  retouch'd,  many  a  long  day 

Labour'd,  and  many  a  night  pursuM  in  dreams. 

Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the  heavea 

He  wanted,  for  a  wealthier  to  enjoy  ! 

And  now  perhaps  the  glorious  hour  is  come, 


©#  THE   TASK. 


BOOK   fH. 


When,  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  t'  endear 

Her  interests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 

A  moment's  operation  on  his  love. 

He  burns  v^ith  most  intense  and  fragant  zeal 

To  serve  his  country.     Ministerial  grace 

Deals  him  out  money  from  the  public  chest  ; 

Or,  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 

Supplies  his  need  with  an  usurious  loan. 

To  be  refunded  duly,  v^hen  his  vote, 

Well-manag'd,  shall  have  earn'd  its  vrorthy  price. 

Oh  innocent,  eompar'd  with  arts  like  these. 

Crape,  and  cock'd  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 

Sent  through    the  traveller's  temples  !    He  that  finds 

One  drop  of  Heaven's  sweet  mercy  in  his  cup, 

Can  dig,  beg,  rot,  and  perish,  well  content, 

So  he  may  wrap  himself  in  honest  rags, 

At  his  last  gasp  ;  but  could  not  for  a  world 

Fish  up  his  dirty  and  dependent  bread 

From  pools  and  ditches  of  the  commonwealth, 

Sordid  and  sickening  at  his  own  success. 

Ambition,    avarice,  penury  incurr'd 
By  endless  riot,  vanity,  the  lust 
Of  pleasure  and  variety,  dispatch. 
As  duly  as  the  swallows  disappear, 
The  world  of  wandering  knights  and  squires  to  town, 
London  ingulfs  them  all !   The  shark  is  there, 
And  the  shark's  prey  ;  the  spendthrift  and  the  leech 
That  sucks  him.     There  tlie  sycophant,  and  he, 
Who,  with  bare-headed  and  obsequious  bows, 
Begs  a  warm  office,  doom'd  to  a  cold  jail 


BOOK  III.  THE  GARDEN.  96 

And  groat  per  diem,  if  his  patron  frown. 
The  levee  swarms,  as  if,  in  golden  pomp, 
Were  character*d  on  every  statesman's  door, 
^*  Battered  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  hereJ^* 
These  are  the  charms  that  sully  and  eclipse 
The  charms  of  nature.     *Tis  the  cruel  gripe 
That  lean  hard-handed  poverty  inflicts, 
The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 
The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amus'd. 
That  at  the  sound  of  winter's  hoary  wing 
Unpeople  all  our  counties  of  such  herds 
Of  fluttering,  loitering,  cringing,  begging,  loose, 
And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a  crowded  coop. 

Oh  thou,  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth, 
Chequer'd  with  all  complexions  of  mankind, 
And  spotted  with  all  crimes  ;  in  whom  I  see 
Much  that  I  love,  and  more  that  I  admire. 
And  all  that  I  abhor  ;  thou  freckled  fair, 
That  pleasest  and  yet  shock'st  me,  I  can  laugh^ 
And  I  can  weep,  can  hope,  and  can  despond. 
Feel  wrath  and  pity  when  I  think  on  thee  ! 
Ten  righteous  would  have  sav'd  a  city  once. 
And  thou  hast  many  righteous. — Well  for  thee— 
That  salt  preserves  thee  !  more  corrupted  else. 
And  therefore  more  obnoxious,  at  this  hour. 
Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  power  to  be. 
For  whom  God  heard  his  Abraham  plead  in  vaifl. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FOURTH  BOOK. 

The  post  comes  in. — The  news-paper  is  reaJ.'-^The  world 
conte7nplated  at  a  distance* — Address  to  winter. '^^The 
rural  amusements  of  a  winter  evening  compared  with 
the  fashionable  ones* — Address  to  evening. — A  brown 
study  *'-^F all  of  snow  in  the  evening, — Thewaggoner,—^ 
A  poor  family  piece, — The  rural  thief — Public  houseu 
^—The  multitude  of  them  censured,-'^he  farmer* s  daugh* 
ier  :  what  she  was — what  she  is. — The  simplicity  of 
country  manners  almost  lost, — Causes  of  the  change.—^ 
Desertion  of  the  country  by  the  rich, — Neglect  of  mag" 
istrates. — The  militia  principally  in  fault,-— The  new  re» 
cruit  and  his  transformation, — Reflexion  on  bodies  cor* 
porate, — The  love  of  rural  objects  natural  to  all^  and 
never  to  be  totally  extinguished^ 


I 


THE  TASK, 


BOOK   JV. 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

JOLARK  !  *tis  the  twanging  "horn  o'er  yonder  bridge, 

That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 

Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 

Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright  ; 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 

With  spatter'd  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen  locks ;, 

News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close  pack'd  load  behind, 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 

Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destin'd  inn  ; 

And,  having  dropp'd  the  expected  bag,  pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 

Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 

Perhaps  to  thousan-ds,  and  of  joy  to  some ; 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 

VOL-  n.  I 


99  TUZ  TASK.  ROOK   IV^ 

Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 

With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 

Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  qm'II, 

Or  charg'd  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains. 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 

His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 

But  oh  th'  important  budget !    usher'd  in 

With  such  heart*shaking  music,  who  can  say 

What  are  its  tidings  ?  have  our  troops  awak'd  ? 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged. 

Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  th'  Atlantic  wave  ? 

Is  India  free  ?  and  does  she  w^ar  her  plum'd 

And  jewellM  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace  ? 

Or  do  we  grind  her  still  ?  The  grand  debate. 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 

The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 

And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all  •; 

I  burn  to  set  th'  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 

And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fii*e,  and  close  the  shutters  fast. 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round. 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  ura 
Throw^s  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups. 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  w^ait  on  each. 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Not  such  his  evening,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeezed 
And  bor'd  with  elbow-points  through  both  his  sides. 
Out-scolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage : 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb^ 


BOOK    IV.  THE   WINTER   EVENING.  99 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 

Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 

Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work  ! 

Which  not  even  critics  criticise  ;  that  holds 

Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read, 

Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which   the  fair, 

Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break  j 

What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life. 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge 

That  tempts  ambition.     On  the  summit  see 

The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes  ; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  !   At  his  heels. 

Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends. 

And  with  a  dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down. 

And  wins  them  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soft 

Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ; 

The  modest  speaker  is  asham'd  and  griev'd 

T*  engross  a  moment's  notice,  and  yet  begs, 

Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 

However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness  !   it  claims  at  least  this  praise  ; 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense, 

That  it  foretels  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here  ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page. 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders,  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 


100  THE  TASK.  BOOK  IT. 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion  ;  roses  for  the  cheeks. 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plundered  of  their  sweets,. 

Nectarious  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favourite  airs, 

Ethereal  journies,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 

At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

*Tis  pleasant  through  the  loop-holes  of  retreat 
To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gate* 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjured  ear^ 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanc'd 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  ;   I  behold 
The  tumult  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 
And  avarice  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man  ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart. 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 


BOOK  IV.  THE  WINTER  EVENING.  lOJ 

He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 

From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from  land  to  land  5 

The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all. 

Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans  ; 

He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime, 

And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 

At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 

He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck. 

Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 

Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 

Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes; 

While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock. 

Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

Oh  Winter,  ruler  of  th'  inverted  year. 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  filPd, 
Thy  breath  congealM  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
FringM  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urg'd  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem*st. 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art !   Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay,' 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  buV  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
i2 


IM  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  IV. 


The  fan.ily  dispersM,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispers'dby  day-light  and  its  cares. 

I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 

Fire-side  enjoyments,  home  born  Iiappiness, 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 

Of  undisturb'd  retirement,  and  the  hours 

Of  long  uninterrupted  evening,  know. 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gatet 

No  powder'd  pert  proficient  in  the  art 

Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these  doors 

Till  the  street  rings ;  no  stationary  steeds 

Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake  : 

But  her#  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task. 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well  depicted  flower,  j| 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 

Unfolds  its  bosom  ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  dispos'd, 

Tollow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page,  by  one 

Made  vocal  for  th'  amusement  of  the  rest ; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes  out ; 

And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still  } 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 

On  female  industry  ;  the  threaded  steel 

THes  swiftly,  and  unfelt,  the  task  proceeds. 


i 


BOOK  IV,  THE  WINTER  EVENING.  103 

The  volume  clos'd,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.     A  Roman  meal ) 
Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 
Perhaps  by  moon-light,  at  their  humble  doors^ 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 
Enjoy'd — spare  feast  !  a  radish  and  an  egg  1 
Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth  : 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world. 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 
A  jarring  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone, 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 
While  we  retrace  with  memory's  pointing  wand, 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 
The  dangers  we  escap'd,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlook'd  for,  hfe  preserv'd  and  peace  restored— 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
Oh  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods  !   exclaim'd 
The  Sabine  bard.     Oh  evenings,  I  reply, 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 
As  more  illumin'd,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Is  winter  hideous  in  a  garb  like  this  ? 
Needs  he  the  tragic  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsavoui*y  throng, 


lot  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  17. 


To  thaw  him  into  feeling  ;  or  the  smart 

And  snappish  dialogue,  that  flippant  wits 

Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile  ? 

The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views 

(Stealing  a  side-long  glance  at  a  full  house) 

The  slope  of  faces,  from  the  floor  to  th'  roof, 

(As  if  one  master-spring  controU'd  them  all) 

Relax'd  into  an  universal  grin, 

Sees  not  a  countenance  there  that  speaks  of   joy 

Half  so  refin'd  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 

Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks 

That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contriv'd 

To  fill  the  void  of  an  unfurnish'd  brain. 

To  palliate  dullness,  and  give  time  a  shove. 

Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 

Unsoil'd,  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound  ; 

But  the  world's  time  is  time  in  masquerade  ! 

Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledg'd 

With  motley  plumes  ;  and,  where  the  peacock  shows 

His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctur'd  black  and  red 

With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form. 

Ensanguined  hearts,  clubs  typical  of  strife. 

And  spades  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 

What  should  be  and  what  was  an  hour-glass  once. 

Becomes  a  dice-box,  and  a  billiard  mast 

Well  does  the  work  of  his  destructive  scythe. 

Thus  deck'd,  he  charms  a  world  whom  fashion  blinds 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleas'd  when  idle  most  ; 

Whose  only  happy  are  their  wasted  hours. 

Even  misses,  at  whose  age  their  mothers  wore 


I 


BOOR  IV»  THE  WINTER  EVENFNG.  IdS 

The  back-String  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 
Of  womanhood,  sit  pupils  in  the  school 
Of  card-devoted  time,  and,  night  by  nighty 
Plac'd  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board. 
Learn  every  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 
But  truce  with  censure.     Roving  as  I  rove. 
Where  shall  I  find  an  end,  or  how  proceed  ? 
Ashe  that  travels  far  oft  turns  aside 
To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mouldering  tower 
Which  seen,  delights  him  not ;  then  coming  home^ 
Describes  and  prints  it,  thst  the  world  may  know 
How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth  ^ 
So  I,  with  brush  in  hand  and  pallet  spread, 
With  colours  mix'd  for  a  far  different  use. 
Paint  cards  and  dolls,  and  every  idle  thing 
That  fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights* 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace  j 
Return,-  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long  I 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west. 
With  matron-step  slow-moving,  while  the  night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ;  one  hand  employed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charg'd  for  maa 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  : 
Not  sumptuously  adorn'd,.  nor  needing  aid,. 
Like  homely  featur'd  night,  of  clustering  gems  f 
A  star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 
Suffiees  thee  ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high. 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 


106^  THE   TASK. 


BOOK   IV* 


With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone. 

Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 

Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm^ 

Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift ; 

And,  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 

To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil ; 

To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 

Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 

When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please  f 

I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  th^e  w^elcome  still. 

Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath 
Goliath,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole,  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and  aQ, 
My  pleasures,  too,  begin.     But  me,  perhaps, 
The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  aw^hile 
With  faint  illumination,  that  upHfts 
The  shadow  to  the  ceiHng,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 
Not  un delightful  is  an  hour  to  me 
So  spent  in  parlour  twihght :  such  a  gloom 
Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind. 
The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 
Pregnant,  or  indispos'd  alike  to  all. 
Laugh  ye,  w^ho  boast  your  more  mercurial  powers, 
That  never  feel  a  stupor,  know  no   pause. 
Nor  need  one  :   I  am  conscious,  and  confess, 
Fearless,  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think. 
Me  oft  has  fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild, 


tOQK  IV.  THE  WINTER  EVENING.  107 

Soothed  with  a  waking  dream  of  houses,  towers, 

Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  expressed 

In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 

I  gaz'd,  myself  creating  what  I  saw. 

Kor  less  amusM  have  I  quiescent  watch'd 

The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars. 

Pendulous,  and  foreboding,  in  the  view 

Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 

Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger's  near  approach* 

*Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 

In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought, 

And  sleeps  and  is  refreshed.     Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a  mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 

Were  task'd  to  his  full  strength,  absorbed  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclin'd  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 

At  evening,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast, 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 

The  recollected  powers  ;  and,    snapping   short 

The  glassy  threads,  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 

Her  brittle  toys,  restores  me  to  myself. 

How  calm  is  my  recess  ;  and  how  the  frost. 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 

The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy'd  within  ! 

I  saw  the  woods  and  fields,  at  close  of  day, 

A  variegated  show .;  the  meadows  green, 

Though  faded  ;  and  the  lands,  where  lately  wav'd 

The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 

UpturnM  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share. 

I  saw  far  oiFthe  weedy  fallows  smik 


i08  THE    TASK.  BOOK  IV. 

With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  graz'd 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  favorite  herb  ;  while  all  the  leafless  groves, 
That  skirt  th*  horizon,  wore  a  sable  hue. 
Scarce  notic'd  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change  t 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 
Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower  :  the  downy  flakes, 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 

Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle  ;  and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  fear'd  the  chilling  blasts 

Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veiL 

In  such  a  w^orld  ;  i.^  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted  ;  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side ; 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves  ;  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  w4th  others,  suffering  more. 
Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team* 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg'd  wheels  ;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace. 
Noiseless,  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 


B0OK   IV.  THE  WINTER   EVENING.  109 

The  toiling  Steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 

Forc'd  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 

Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  formM  to  bear 

The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night. 

With  half-shut  eyes,  and  pucker *d  cheeks,  and  teeth 

Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 

One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 

He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip. 

Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

Oh  happy  ;  and,  in  my  account,  denied 

That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 

Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou  ! 

Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 

The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 

The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 

Thy  vigorous  pulse  ;  and  the  unhealthful  east, 

That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 

Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 

Thy  days  roll  on,  exempt  from  household  care  ; 

Thy  waggon  is  thy  wife  ;  and  the  poor  beasts, 

That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 

Thine  helpless  cliarge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 

Ah,  treat  them  kindly  !   rude  as  thou  appear'st, 

Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy  !   which  the  great. 

With  needless  hurry  whirl*d  from  place  to  place, 

Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat  ; 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  eveiy  feehng  heart. 

VOL.   II.  K 


110  THE  TASK.  «QOK  IT* 

Warm'd  while  it  lasts,  by  labour,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
ill  clad  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 
The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brush-wood,  blazing  clear, 
Eut  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well  5 
And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cowering  o'er  the  sparks. 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warm*d. 
The  man  feels  least,  as  more  inur'd  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  mov'd  by  his  severer  toil ; 
Yet  he,  too,  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguished,  which  I  saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger*s  end 
Just  when  the  day  declin'd,  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodged  on  the  shelf,  half  eaten,  without  sauce 
Of  savoury  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  still ; 
Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  :  for,  alas, 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chain 'd. 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few  ! 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.     AH  the  care^ 
Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed,  and  stool, 
Skillet,  and  old  carv'd  chest,  from  public  sale* 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands  ;  but  other  boast  have  none 
To  sooth  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg, 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  lov^. 


SOOK    TV,  THE  WINTER   EVENING,  III 

I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair. 
For  ye  are  worthy  ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn'd, 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ;  liberal  of  their  aid- 
To  clamorous  importunity  in  rags,> 
But  oft-times  deaf  to  suppliants,,  who  would  blus  h. 
To  wear  a  tatter'd  garb  however  coarse. 
Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth  ; 
These  ask  with  painful  shyness,,  and  refus*d 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire !' 
But  be  ye  of  good  courage  !   Time  itself 
Shall  much  befriend  you.     Time  shall  give  increase  j 
And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well  train'd. 
But  helpless,  in.  few  years  shall  find  their  hands. 
And  labour  too.     Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 
What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare. 
Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send, 
I  mean  the  man  who  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 

But  poverty,  with  most  who  whimper  forth 
Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  woe  ; 
Th'  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder  ;  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a  day  of  sloth 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong. 
Woe  to  the  gardener's  pale,  the  farmer's  hedge,. 


112  THE  TASK.  BOOK  IV. 

PlasliM  neatly,  and  secured  with  driven  stakes 

Deep  in  the  loamy  bank.     Uptorn  by  strength, 

Resistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame 

To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil — 

An  ass*s  burden — and,  when  laden  most 

And  heaviest,  hght  of  foot,  steals  fast  away. 

Nor  does  the  boarded  hovel  better  guard 

The  well-stack'd  pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots 

From  his  pernicious  force.     Nor  will  he  leave 

Unwrench'd  the  door,  however  well  secured, 

Where  chanticleer  amidst  his  harem  sle3ps 

In  unsuspecting  pomp.     Twitch'd  from  the  perch, 

He  gives  the  princely  bird,  with  all  his  wives, 

To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain, 

And  loudly  wondering  at  the  sudden  change. — 

Nor  this  to  feed  his  own  !   'Twere  some  excuse 

Did  pity  of  their  sufFeiings  warp  aside 

His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 

For  their  support,  so  destitute. — But  they 

Neorlected  pine  at  home  ;  themselves,  as  more 

Exposed  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 

His  victims,  robb'd  of  their  defenceless  all. 

Cruel  is  all  he  does.      'Tis  quenchless  thirst 

Of  ruinous  ebriety  that  prompts 

His  every  action,  and  imbrutes  the  man. 

O^  for  a  law  to  noose  the  villain's  neck 

Who  starves  his  own  ;  who  persecutes  the  blood 

He  gave  them  in  his  children's  veins,  and  hates 

And  wrongs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love  I 


BOOIC  IV.  rirE  WrNTER  EVfiNMNG.  113 

Pass  where  we  may,  through  city  or  through  town, 
Village  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land, 
Though  lean  and  beggar'd,  every  twentieth  pac^' 
Conducts  th'  unguarded  nose  to  such  a  whifF 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth-issuing  from  the  styes 
That  law  his  licensed,  as  makes  temperance  reel. 
There  sit,  involved  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Gf  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  boor, 
The  lacquey,  and  the  groom  :  the  craftsman  there 
Takes  a  Lethaean  leave  of  all  his  toil ; 
Smith,  cobbler,  joiner,  he  that  phes  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough  ;  all  loud  alike, 
All  learned,  and  all  drunk  !  The  fiddle  screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wail'd 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard  : 
Fierce  the  dispute,  whatever  the  theme  ;  while  she,* 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate, 
Perch'd  on  the  sign-post,  holds  with  even  hand- 
Her  undecisive  scales.-     In  this  she  lays 
A  weight  of  ignorance  ;  in  that,  of  ptide  ; 
And  smiles,  delighted  with  th'  eternal  poise. 
Dire  is  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound 
The  cheek-distending  oath,  not  to  be  prais*d- 
As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, - 
Like  those  which  modern  senators  employ,  • 
Whose  oath  is  rhetorick,  and  who  swear  for  fame  2* 
Behold  the  schools  in  which  plebeian  minds, 
Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts. 
Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace, 
But  none  with  readier  skill  !^ — 'tis  here  they  learn^ 
K  2 


in  THE    TASK.  BOOK  IT. 

The  road  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace. 

To  indigence  and  rapine  ;   till  at  last, 

Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load, 

Shakes  her  encumbered  lap,  and  casts  them  out. 

But  censure  profits  little  :   vain  th'  attempt 

To   advertise  in  verse  a  public  pest, 

That,  like  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feeds 

His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 

The  excise  is  fattened  vvith  the  rich  result 

Of  all  this  riot  ;  and  ten  thousand  casks. 

Forever  dribbhng  out  their  base  contents, 

Touch'd  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state, 

Bleed  gold  for  ministers  to  sport  away. 

Drink,  and  be  mad  ti.en  ;    'tis  your  country  bids  ! 

Gloriously  drunk,  obey  th'  important  call  ! 

Her  cause  demands  th'  assistance  of  your  throats  5~ 

Yc  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  more. 

Would  I  had  fallen  upon  those  happier  days 
That  poets  celebrate  ;  those  golden  times. 
And  those  Arcadian  scenes,  that  Maro  sings, 
And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetic  prose. 
Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearta 
That  felt  their  virtues ;  innocence,  it  seems. 
From  courts  dismiss'd,  found  shelter  in  the  groves  j 
The  footsteps  of  simphcity,  irapress'd 
Upon  the  yielding  herbage,  (so  they  sing) 
Then  w^re  not  all  effacM  :  then  speech  profane^ 
And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found  ; 
Observed  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaim.'d. 
Vain  wish  I  those  days  were  never  :  airy  dream* 


BOOK  IV.  THE  WINTER  EVENING.  115 

Sat  for  the  picture  5  and  the  poet's  hand. 

Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 

Impos'd  a  gay  dehrium  for  a  truth. 

Grant  it  :   I  still  must  envy  them  an  age 

That  favour'd  such  a  dream  ;  in  days  hke  these 

Impossible,  when  virtue  is  so  scarce, 

That  to  suppose  a  scene  where  she  presides, 

Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief. 

No  :   we  are  polish'd  now  !   the  rural  lass. 

Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace, 

Her  artless  manners,  and  her  neat  attire, 

So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 

Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance, 

Is  seen  no  more.     The  character  is  lost  ! 

Her  head,  adorn 'd  with  lappets  pinn'd  aloft, 

And  ribbands  streaming  gay,  superbly  rais'd, 

And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size. 

Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand 

For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains  ; 

Her  elbows  ruffled,  and  her  tottering  form 

111  propp'd  upon  French  heels  ;   she  might  be  deem'd 

(But  that  the  basket  danghng  on  her  arm 

Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a  rank  ♦ 

Too  proud  for  dairy  work,  or  sale  of  eggs. 

Expect  her  soon  with  foot -boy  at  her  heels, 

No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 

Her  train  and  her  umbrella  all  her  care  ! 

The  town  has  ting*d  the  country  ;  and  the  stain 
Appears  a  spot  upon  a  vestal's  robe. 
The  worse  for  what  it  soils.     The  fashion  runs 


116'  THE  TASK.  BOOICIV. 

Down  into  scenes  still  rural ;  but,  alas, 

Scenes  rarely  grac'd  with  rural  manners  now  ! 

Time  was,  when,  in  the  pastoral  retreat, 

Th*  unguarded  door  was  safe  ;  men  did  not  watch 

T'  invade  another's  right,  or  guard  their  own. 

Then  sleep  was  undisturbed  by  fear,  unscar'd 

By  drunken  bowlings  ;  and  the  chilling  tale 

Qf  midnight  murder  was  a  wonder  heard 

With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes.- 

But  farewelnow  to  unsuspicious  nights. 

And  slumbers  unalarm'd  !   Now,  ere  you  sleep ^^ 

See  that  your  poHsh'd  arms  be  prim*d  with  care,. 

And  drop  the  night-bolt  ; — ruf&ans  are  abroad  ; 

And  the  first  larum  of  the  cock's  shrill  throat 

May  prove  a  trumpet  summoning  your  ear 

To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 

Even  day -light  has  its  dangers  :  and  the  walk 

Through  pathless   wastes  and    woods,    unconscious 

once 
Gf  other  tenants  than  melodious  birds, 
Gr  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold. 
Lamented  change  !  to  which  full  many  a  cause 
Inveterate,  hopeless  of  a   cure,  conspires. 
The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill,:- 
From  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 
Increase  of  power  begets  increase  of  wealth  5  - 
Wealth  luxury,  and  luxury  excess  ; 
Excess,  the  scrofulous  and  itchy  plague 
That  seizes  first  the  opulent,  descends 
To  the  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time~ 


BOOK   IV.  THE  WINTER   EVENING,  117 

Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale 
Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 
The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 
The  license  of  the  lowest  in  degree, 
Desert  their  ofRce  ;  and  themselves,  intent 
On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus 
To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 
Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 
Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps. 
Though  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 
The  plump  convivial  parson  often  bears 
The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lay  a 
His  reverence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 
On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 
Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm  ; 
When  he  should  strike  he  trembles,  and  sets  free, 
Himself  enslav'd  by  terror  of  the  band, 
Th'  audacious  convict,  whom  he  dares  not  bind^ 
Perhaps,  though  by  profession  ghostly  pure. 
He  too  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 
Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside 
In  lucrative  concerns.     Examine  well 
His  milk-white  hand  ;  the  palm  is  hardly  clean- 
But  here  and  there  an  Hgly  smutch  appears. 
Foh  !   'twas  a  bribe  that  left  it  :  he  has  touch'd 
Corruption  !    Whoso  seeks  an  audit  here 
Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish, 
Wild-fowl  or  venison  :  and  his  errand  speeds. 

But  faster  far,  and  more  than  all  the  rest, 
A  noble  cause,  which  none  who  bears  a  spark 


KI'8<  THE  TA9KV 


BOOK  IT^ 


Of  public  Virtue  ever  wish'd  remov'd, 

Works  the  deplor'd  and  mischievous  effect. 

*Tis  universal  soldiership  has  stabb'd 

The  heart  of  merit   in  the  meaner  class, 

Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 

Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause, 

Seem  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  goodj. 

And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 

The  clown,  the  child  of  nature,  without  guilejt, 

Blest  with  an  infant's  ignorance  of  all 

But  his  own  simple  pleasures  ;  now  and  thea 

A  wrestling-match,  a  foot-race,  or  a  fair  ; 

Is  ballotted,  and  trembles  at  the  news  : 

Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  and,  mumbling,  swears 

A  bible  oath  to  bewhate'er  they  please. 

To  do  he  knows  not  what  !  The  task  perform'd» 

That  instant  he  becomes  the  Serjeant's  care,. 

His  pupil,  and  his  torment,  and  his  jest. 

His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes. 

Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks^. 

Procure  him  many  a  curse.     By  slow  degrees, 

Unapt  to  learn,  and  form'd  of  stubborn  stuff, 

He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 

Grows  conscious  of  a  change,  and  likes  it  well  :- 

He  stands  erect ;  his  slouch  becomes  a  walk  ; 

He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air. 

His  form  and  movement  ;  is  as  smart  above 

As  meal  and  larded  locks  can  make  him  ;  wears> 

His  hat,  or  his  plum'd  helmet,  with  a  grace  :, 

And^his  three  years  of  heroship  expir'd,, 


£00K  1>^-  THE  WINTER  ^VXNING.  119 

Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough. 

He  hates  the  field,  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 

Attends  him  ;  drives  his  cattle  to  a  march  ; 

And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left, 

^Twere  well  if  his  exterior  change  were  all — 

But  with  his  clumsy  port  the  wretch  has  lost 

His  ignorance  and  harmless  manners  too  ! 

To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink  ;  to  show  at  home, 

By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  sabbath-breach. 

The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad  ; 

T'  astonish  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends  ; 

To  break  some  maiden's  and  his  mother's  heart  5 

To  be  a  pest  where  he  was  useful  once  ; 

Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory,  now  I 

Man  in  society  is  like  a  flower 
Blown  in  its  native  bed  :  'tis  there  alone 
His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom. 
Shine  out  ;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 
But  man,  associated  and  leaguM  with  man 
By  regal  warrant,  or  self-join'd  by  bond 
For  interest-sake,  or  swarming  into  clane 
Beneath  one  head  for  purposes  of  war, 
Like  flowers  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 
And  bundled  dose  to  fill  some  crowded  vase, 
Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marr'd, 
Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endur'd. 
Hence  chartered  boroughs  are  such  public  plagues ; 
And  burghers,  men  immaculate  perhaps 
In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combin'd, 
Become  a  loathsome  body,  only  fit 


120 


THE   TASK.  BOOK   IV, 


For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main. 
Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 
Against  the  charities  of  domestic  life. 
Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 
Their  nature  ;  and,  disclaiming  all  regard 
For  mercy  and  the  common  rights  of  man^ 
Build  factories  with  blood,  conducting  trade 
At  the  sword's  point,  and  dying  the  white  robe 
Of  innocent  commercial  justice  red. 
Hence,  too,  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 
Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array, 
With  all  its  majesty  of  thundering  pomp. 
Enchanting  music  and  immortal  wreaths, 
Is  but  a  school  where  thoughtlessness  is  taught 
On  principle,  where  foppery  atones 
For  folly,  gallantry  for  every  vice. 

But,  shghted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandoned,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret. 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 
I  never  fram'd  a  wish,  or  forniM  a  plan. 
That  flatter'd  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 
But  there  I  laid  the  scene.     The  re  early  stray'd 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural  ;  rural,   too, 
The  first-born  efforts  of  my  youthful  muse. 
Sportive,  and  jingling  her  poetic  bells 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  powers. 
No  bard  could  ploase  me  but  w^hose  lyre  was  tun'd 


BOOK    IV.  THE   WINTER   EVENING.  121 

To  nature's  praises.     Heroes  and  their  feats 

Fatigu'd  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 

Of  Tityrus,  assembhng,  as  he  sang, 

The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  favourite  beech. 

Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms  : 

New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpassed 

The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 

To  speak  its  excellence.     I  danc'd  for  joy. 

I  marvelPd  much,  that  at  so  ripe  an  age 

As  twice-seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 

Engag'd  my  wonder :  and,  admiring  still, 

And  still  admiring,  with  regret  supposed 

The  joy  half-lost  because  not  sooner  found. 

There,  too,  enamour'd  of  the  life  I  lov*d, 

Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 

Determined,  and  possessing  it  at  last 

With  transports  such  as  fa vour'd  lovers  feel, 

I  studied,  priz'd,  and  wish'd  that  I  had  known, 

Ingenious  Cowley  !  and,  though  now  reclaimed 

By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 

I  cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit 

Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools. 

I  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retired  ; 

Though  stretch'd  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent  bowers. 

Not  unemploy'd  ;  and  finding  rich  amends 

For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse. 

'Tis  born  with  all :   the  love  of  nature's  works 

Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 

Infus'd  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 

And,  though  th'  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 

VOL.   II.  , 


^'^2  THE  TASK.  BOOK  IV. 

Discriminated  each  from  each  by  strokes 

And  touches  of  his  hand  with  so  much  art 

Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 

Twins  at  all  points-^yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

1  hat  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works, 

And  ail  can  taste  them  :  minds  th^t  have  been  formed 

And  tutor'd  with  a  relish  more  exact, 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmov'd. 

It  is  a  flame  that  dies  not  even  there. 

Where  nothing  feeds  it ;  neither  business,  crowds^ 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life. 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 

In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 

Like  a  swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads. 

Prove  it.     A  breath  of  unadulterate  air. 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 

The  citizen  !  and  brace  his  languid  fi*ame  ! 

Even  in  the  stiiling  bosom  of  the  town, 

A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives.,  has  charms 

That  sooth  the  rich  possessor :  much  consolM, 

That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 

Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 

He  cultivates.     These  serve  him  with  a  hint 

That  nature  lives  :  that  sight-refreshing  green 

Is  still  the  livery  she  dehghts  to  wear. 

Though  sickly  samples  of  th'  exuberant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  linM  with  creeping  herbs, 

The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 

Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed^ 


BOOK   IV.  THE   WINTER  EVENM^^G.  1 22 

The  Frenchman's*  darling  ?  are  they  not  all  proofs, 

That  man,  immur'd  In  cities,  still  retains 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 

Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 

By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may  ? 

The  most  unfurnished  with  the  means  of  life, 

And  they  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds 

To  range  the  fields  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air, 

Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct  i  over  head 

Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick, 

And  watered  duly.     There  the  pitcher  stands 

A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there  ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-fpent  man  regrets 

The  country  ;  with  what  ardour  he  contrives 

A  peep  at  nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health,  and  ease, 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  throng'd  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown  !   hail,  rural  life  ! 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honours,  or  emoluments,  or  fame  ; 
I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  of&ces  will  have 
Great  talents.     And  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 
That  lifts  him  into  life  ;  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordainM  to  fill. 


*  Mignonette, 


124' 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  1V\ 


To  the  deliverer  of  an  injur'd  land 

He  gives  a  tongue  t'enlarge  upon,  a  heart 

To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs  j 

To  monarchs  dignity  ;  to  judges  sense  j 

To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 

To  me  an  unambitious  mind,  content 

In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 

A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 

Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I  wish'd. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FIFTH  BOOK. 

jifrosly  mormng, — The  foddering  of  cattle, — The  wood* 
man  and  his  dog » — The  poultry. — Whimsical  effects  of 
frost  at  a  waterfall" — The  Empress  of  Russians  palace 
of  ice^-^^^musements  of  monarch s. —  War  one  of  them» 
^^Warsy  ivhence^-^Aud  fwhence  monarchy. — The  evils 
of  it. — English  and  French  loyalty  contrasted. — The 
Bastilci  and  a  prisoner  there. — Liberty  the  chief  recom* 
mendation  of  this  country. — Modern  patriotism  quest ion^ 
ahky  and  why. — The  perishable  nature  of  the  best  human 
institutions. — Spiritual  liberty  no  t  perishable. — The  slav^ 
ish  state  of  man  by  nature, — Deliver  him^  Deisty  if 
you  can. — Grace  tnust  do  it, — The  respective  merits  of 
patriots  and  martyrs  stated. — Their  different  treatment. 
Happy  freedom  of  the  man  whom  grace  males  free.^^ 
His  relish  of  the  worh  of  God. — Address  to  the  Crea^ 
ior^ 


THE  TASK. 


BOOK  r. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

JL  IS  morning  ;  and  the  sun  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  th*  horizon  ;  while  the  clouds. 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze. 
Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 
Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale. 
And,  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue. 
From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 
In  spite  of  gravity  and  sage  remark 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance 
I  view  the  muscular  proportion  *d  limb 
Transform'd  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless  pair. 


128  THE  TASK.  BOOK  1U 

As  they  design'd  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step  ;  and,  as  I  near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plastered  wall. 
Preposterous  sight  !  the  legs  without  the  man. 
The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ;  and  the  bents, 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest. 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and,  in  bright  apparel  clad 
And  fledg'd  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder  ;  not  like  hungering  man. 
Fretful  if  unsupplied  ;  but  silent,  meek, 
And  patient  of  the  slow-pac*d  swain's   delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  th'  accustom'd  load. 
Deep-plunging,  and  again  deep-plunging  oft, 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass  : 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands. 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away  :  no  needless  care, 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man  ;  to  wield  the  axe 
And  drive  the  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear, 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears 
And  tail  cropp'd  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur— 


BOOK  V.  THE  WINTER  MORNING   WALK,  12^ 

His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 

Now  creeps  he  slow,  and  now  with  many  a  frisk 

Wide-scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 

With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout; 

Then  shakes  his  powdered  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 

Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 

Moves  right  towards  the  mark  ;  nor  stops  for  aught. 

But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 

To  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube 

That  fumes  beneath  his  nose :  the  trailing  cloud 

Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighboring  pale. 

Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 

Of  smiling  day,  they  gossipp'd  side  by  side. 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well  known  call 

The  feathered  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing, 

And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood. 

Conscious  and  fearful  of  too-  deep  a  plunge. 

The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves 

To  seize  the  fair  occafion.      Well  they  eye 

The  scattered  grain  ;   and,  thievishly  resolved 

To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scar'd. 

As  oft  return — ^  pert  voracious  kind. 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 

Remains  to  each — ^the  search  of  sunny  nook. 

Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resigned 

To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 

His  wonted  strut ;  and,  wading  at  their  head 

With  well  considered  steps,  seems  to  resent 

His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 


130  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  V. 


How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 

The  hills  and  vallies  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 

Earth  yields  them  naught ;  th'  imprison'd  worm  is  safe 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 

Lie  covered  close  5  and  berry-bearing  thorns, 

That  feed  the  thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose) 

Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 

The  long  protracted  rigour  of  the  year 

Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.     In  chinks  and  hole? 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end. 

As  instinct  prompts  ;  self-buried  ere  they  die. 

The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields, 

Where  neither  grub,  nor  root,  nor  earth-nut,  now 

Repays  their  labour  more  ;  and  perched  aloft 

By  the  way-side,  or  stalking  in  the  path. 

Lean  pensioners  upon  the  traveller's  track. 

Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them, 

Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain. 

The  streams  are  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank, 

O'erwhelming  all  distinction^      On  the  ilood^ 

Indurated  and  fix'd,  the  snowy  weight 

Lies  undissolved  ;  while  silently  beneath, 

And  unperceiv'd,  the  current  steals  away- 

Not  so,  where,  scornful  of  a  check,  it  leaps 

The  mill-dam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 

And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below  : 

No  frost  can  bind  it  there  ;  its  utmost  force 

Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist 

That  in  its  fall  the  liquid  sheet  throws  wide. 


BOOK  V.  THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  ISl 

And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroidered  banks 

With  forms  so  various,  that  no  powers  of  art, 

The  pencil  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene  ! 

Here  glittering  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high 

(Fantastic  misarrangement  !)  on  the  roof 

Large  growth  of  what  may  seem  the   sparkling  trees 

And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.     The  crystal  drops 

That  trickle  down  the  branches,  fast  congeal'd, 

Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length, 

And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorn'd  before. 

Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 

The  sun^-beam  ;  there,  imboss'd  and  fretted  wild. 

The  growing  wonder  takes  a  thousand  shapes 

Capricious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain 

The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 

Thus  nature  works  as  if  to  mock  at  art. 

And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  powers  ; 

By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes 

Performing  such  inimitable  feats 

As  she  with  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admir'd. 

Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man. 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ  ! 

Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  freak. 

The  wonder  of  the  North.     No  forest  fell 

When  thou  would'st  build  ;  no  quarry  sent  its  Stores 

T'  enrich  thy  walls  :  but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

in  such  a  palace  Aristseus  found 

C)renc,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale 


1S2  THE  TASK. 


ROOK  IV, 


Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maternal  ear  : 

In  such  a  palace  poetry  might  place 

The  armory  of  winter  ;  where  his  troops, 

The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet. 

Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail. 

And  snow  that  often  bhnds  the  traveller's  course. 

And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose  ; — 

No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there  : 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well  adjusted  parts 

Were  soon  conjoined  ;  nor  other  cement  ask'd 

Than  water  interfus'd  to  make  them  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  disposed,  and  of  all  hues, 

Illumin'd  every  side  :  a  watery  light 

Gleam'd  through  the  clear  transparency,  thatseem'd 

Another  moon  new  risen,  or  meteor  fallen 

From  heaven  to  earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene. 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy  ;  though  smooth 

And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frost-bound 

Firm  as  a  roek.     Nor  wanted  aught  within. 

That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 

For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  wavy  wreaths 

Of  flowers,  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 

BlushM  on  the  pannels.     Mirror  needed  none 

"Where  all  was  vitreous  ;  but  in  order  due 

Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 

(What  seem'd  at  least  commodious  seat)  were  there ; 

Sofa,  and  co  uch,  .and  high-built  throne  august. 

The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all, 

Aodall  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch  ;  a  scene 


BOOK  V.         THE   WINTER  EVENING   WALK.  135 

Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream, 

And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 

Alas  !   'twas  but  a  mortifying  stroke 

Of  undesignM  severity,  that  glanc'd 

(Made  by  a  monarch)  on  her  own  estate, 

On  human  grandeur  and  the  courts  of  kings. 

'Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 

'Twas  durable  ;  as  w^orthless,  as  it  seem'd 

Intrinsically  precious  ;  to  the  foot 

Treacherous  and  false  ;   it  smilM,  and  it  was  cold. 

Great    princes    have    great  playthings.       Some  have 

pky'd 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain-high. 
Some  have  amus'd  the  dull,  sad  years  ofhfe 
(Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad) 
With  schemes  of  monumental  fame  ;  and  sought 
By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 
Short -liv'd  themselves,  t'  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field. 
And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  war's  a  game,  which,  were  their  subjects  wise, 
Kings  would  not  plav  at.     Nations  would  do  well 
T'  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds 
Are  gratified  with  mischief;  and  who  spoil. 
Because  men  sufi^er  it,  their  toy  the  world. 

When  Babel  was  confounded,  and  the  ereat 
Confederacy  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  split  into  diversity  of  tongues, 

VOL.    II.  M 


I3i  THE  TASK.  BOOK  V. 

Then,  as  a  shcplierd  separates  his  flock, 

These  to  the  upland,  to  the  valley  those, 

God  drave  asunder,  and  assign'd  their  lot 

To  all  the  nations.     Ample  was  the  boon 

He  gave  them,  in  its  distribution  fair 

And  equal ;   and  he  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 

Peace  was  awhile   their   care :    they   plough'd,    and 

sow'd. 
And  reap'd  their  plenty,  without  grudge  or  strife. 
But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep 
Than  human  passions  please.     In  every  heart 
Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war ; 
Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze. 
Cain  had  already  shed  a  brother's  blood  : 
The  deluge  wash'd  it  out ;  but  left  unquench'd 
The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man. 
Soon,  by  a  righteous  judgment,  in  the  line 
Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 
The  first  artificer  of  death    ;   the  shrewd 
Contriver  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge, 
Andforc'd  the  blunt  and  yet  unblooded  steel 
To  a  keen   edge,  and  made  it  bright  for  war. 
Him,  Tubal  nam*d,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times. 
The  sword  and  falchion  their  inventor  claim  ; 
And  the  first  smith  was  the  first  murderei's  son. 
His  art  survived  the  waters  ;  and  ere  long 
When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 
In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 
These  meadows  and  that  range  of  hills  his  owii, 
The  tasted  sweets  of  property  begat 


BOOK  V.  THE  WINTER  MORNING   WALK.  135 

Desire  of  more  ;  and  industry  in  some, 

T'  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne. 

Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 

Thus  war  began  on  earth  ;  these  fought  for  spoil, 

And  those  in  self-defence.     Savage  at  first 

The  onset,  and  irregular.     At  length 

One  eminent  above  the  rest,  for  strength, 

For  stratagem,  or  courage,  or  for  all. 

Was  chosen  leader  :  him  they  serv'd  in  war. 

And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  v/arlike  deeds 

Reverenc'd  no  less.     Who  could  v/ith  him  compare  i 

Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselve« 

As  he  whose  prowess  had  subdu'd  their  foes  ? 

Thus  war,  affording  field  for  the  display 

Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peace. 

Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call 

For  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  king. 

King  v^as  a  name  too  proud  for  man  to  wear 

With  modesty  and  meekness  ;  and  the  crown, 

Sodazzhng  in  their  eyes  who  set  it  on, 

Was  sure  t'intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound 

It  is  the  abject  property  of  most. 

That,  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 

And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves. 

They  sink  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 

They  know  not,  what  it  is  to  feel  within 

A  comprehensive  faculty,  that  grasps 

Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields, 

Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 

For  their  conception,  which  they  cannot  move. 


136 


THE  TASK.  BOOK  V. 


Conscious  of  impotence,  they  soon  grow  drunk 

With  gazing  when  they  see  an  able  man 

Step  forth  to  notice  ;  and,  besotted  thus. 

Build  him  a  pedestal,  and  say,  "  Stand  there, 

**  And  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise." 

They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust, 

Then  most  deserving  in  their  own  account 

When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause, 

As  if  exalting  him  they  rais'd  themselves* 

Thus  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 

And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man, 

They  demi-deify  and  fume  him  so, 

That  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 

Inflated  and  astrut  with  self-conceit, 

He  gulps  the  windy  diet  ;  and  ere  long. 

Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks 

The  world  was  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 

Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle  ;  drudges  bora 

To  bear  his  burdens,  drawing  in  his  gears, 

And  sweating  in  his  service,  his  caprice 

13ecomes  the  soul  that  animates  them  all. 

He  deems  a  thousand  or  ten  thousand  lives. 

Spent  in  the  purchase  of  renown  for  him.. 

An  easy  reckoning  ;  and  they  think  the  same. 

Thus  kings  were  first  invented,  and  thus  kings 

Were  burnish 'd  into  heroes,  and  became 

The  arbiters  of  this  terraqueous  swamp  ; 

Storks  among  frogs  that  have  but  croak'd  and  died. 

Strange,  that  such  folly  as  lifts  bloated  maa 

To  eminence  fit  only  for  a  god, 


BOOK  V.  THE  WINTER   MORNING    WALK,  157 

Should  ever  drivel  out  of  human  lips, 
Even  in  the  cradled  weakness  of  the  world  ! 
Still  stranger  much,  that,  when  at  length  mankind 
Had  reach'd  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 
And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 
On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet 
Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 
And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  made  5 
But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 
Of  sad  experience,  nor  examples  set 
By  some,  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevailed, 
Can,  even  now,  when  they  are  grown  mature 
In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophic  deeps 
Familiar,  serve  t'  emancipate  the  rest  ! 
Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom,  and  so  prone 
To  reverence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead 
A  course  of  long  observance  for  its  use, 
That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills. 
Because  delivered  down  from  sire  to  son, 
is  kept  and  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing  ! 
But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock 
Of  rational  discussion,  that  a  man, 
Compounded  and  made  up  like  other  men, 
Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 
And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet 
As  in  the  bosoms  of  the  slaves  he  rules, 
Should  be  a  despot  absolute,  and  boast 
Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land  ? 
Should,  when  he  pleases,  and  on  whom  he  will, 
Wage  war,  with  any  or  with  no  pretence 
M  2 


1S8  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  y^ 


Of  provocation  given,  or  wrong  sustain'd. 

And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit,  by  means 

That  his  own  humour  dictates,  from  the  clutch 

Of  poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 

His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  hfe, 

A  splendid  opportunity  to  die  i 

^ay  ye,  (who  with  less  prudence  than  of  old 

Jotham  ascribed  to  his  assembled  trees 

In  politic  convention)  put  your  trust 

I'  th*  shadow  of  a  bramble,  and,  reclin'd 

In  fancied  peace  beneath  his  dangerous  branch. 

Rejoice  in  hinn  ^^^  celebrate  his  sway. 

Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude  i  Whence  springs 

Your  self-^enying  zeal,  that  holds  it  good 

To  stroke  the  prickly  grievance,  and  to  hang 

His  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise  ? 

We,  too,  are  friends  to  loyalty.     We  love 

The  king  who  loves  the  law,,  respects  his  bounds^ 

And  reigns  content  within  them  :  him  we  serve 

Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free  : 

But,  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man. 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.     King  though  he  be, 

And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still  ; 

May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  powers. 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant ; 

Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.     He  is  ours 

T*  administer,  to  guard,  t'  adorn,  the  state. 

But  not  to  wai*p  or  change  it.     We  are  his, 

To.  serve  binx  nobly  in  the  common  cause^ 


BOOK  V.       THE  WINTER   MORNING  WALK.  1S9 

True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 
Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  lore 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 
We  love  the  man  ;  the  paltry  pageant  you. 
We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth ; 
You  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes. 
We,  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a  king  ; 
You,  chains  and  bondage,  for  a  tyrant's  sake  ; 
Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 
Yours,  a  blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 
And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust* 
Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterhng,  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish, 
I  would  not  be  a  king  to  be  belov'd 
Causeless,  and  daub'd  with  undiscerning  praise. 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 
Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

Whose  freedom  is  by  sufferance,  and  at  will 
Of  a  superior,  he  is  never  free. 
Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life 
Expos'd  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 
The  state  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foiPd, 
And  forc'd  t'  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought. 
Deserves  at  least  applause  for  her  attempt. 
And  pity  for  her  loss.     But  that's  a  cause 
Net  often  unsuccessful :  power  usurp 'd 
Is  weakness  when  oppos'd  ;  conscious  of  wrong, 
'Tis  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 
But  slaves,,  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 


140  THE  TASK. 


BOOK     V. 


Of  freedom,   in  that  hope  itself  possess 
All  that  the  contest  calls  for  ;  spirit,  strength, 
The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts  ; 
The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek.* 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats, 
Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land. 
Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  aveng'd  on  Pharaoh — the  Bastile  ! 
Ye  horrid  towers,  th'  abode  of  broken  hearts  ; 
Ye  dungeons  and  ye  cages  of  despair. 
That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 
With  music  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears — 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men  ; 
There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fall'n  at  last  ;  to  know 
That  even  our  enemies,  so  oft  employed 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 
Tor  he  who  values  liberty  confines 
His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
No  narrow  bounds  ;  her  cause  engages  him 
Wherever  pleaded.     ^Tis  the  cause  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind  ; 
ImmurM  though  unaccused,  condemned  untried. 
Cruelly  spar'd>  and  hopeless  of  escape ! 


*  The  Author  hopes  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  un- 
necessary warmth  upon  so  interesting  a  subject.  He  is  aware 
that  it  is  become  almost  fashionable  to  stigmatize  such  senti- 
roents  as  no  better  than  empty  declamation  ;  but  it  is  an  ill 
syropcom,  and  peculiar  to  modern  times. 


BOOK  V.       THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  141 

There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seeil 
By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a  stump, 
And,  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 
Still  lives,  though  all  its  pleasant  boughs  are  gone. 
To  count  the  hour-bell  and  expect  no  change  ; 
And  ever,  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard, 
Still  to  refle6l,  that,  though  a  joyless  note 
To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 
Account  it  music  ;  that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre,  or  jocund  feast  or  ball  : 
The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 
From  labour  ;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke 
Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight- 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 
To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  woe 
Contrives,  hard-shifting,  and  without  her  tools— 
To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 
In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 
A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own- 
To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorg'd 
And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pamper'd  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach. 
Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend-— 
To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 
The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door  ; 
Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant. 
And  then  alternate  ;  with  a  sickly  hope 
By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 


14^2  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  V. 


Some  relish  ;  till  the  sum  exactly  found 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again — 

Oh  comfortless  existence  i   heram'd  around 

With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 

And  beg  for  exile  or  the  pangs  of  death  ? 

That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man. 

Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights. 

Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 

Upon  th'  endearments  of  domestic  life 

And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 

And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word 

To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 

Moves  indignation  ;  makes  the  name  of  king 

(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 

As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god, 

Ador'd  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  ; 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.     All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 
Is  evil  ;  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science  ;  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  discovery  ;  and  begets. 
In  those  that  suffer  it,  a  sordid  mind 
Bestial,  a  meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form. 
Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art. 
With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  public  exigence  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state. 


BOOK  V.         THB     WINTER   MORNING  WALK.  i4S 

Thee  I  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 

Among  the  nations,  seeing  tkou  art  free  : 

My  native  nook  of  earth  !   Thy  clime  is  rude. 

Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 

All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine  ; 

Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft 

And  plausible  than  social  life  requires, 

And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art 

To  give  the  what  politer  France  receives 

From  Nature's  bounty — that  humane  address 

And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 

In  converse,  either  starv'd  by  cold  reserve. 

Or  flush'd  with  fierce  dispute,  a  senseless  brawl : 

Yet,  being  free,  I  love  thee  :  for  the  sake 

Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 

Disgraced  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art, 

To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 

But  once  enslav'd.  fai'ewel  !   I  x:ould  endure 

Chains  no  where  patiently ;  and  chains  at  home, 

Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 

Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 

Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 

That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 

And  shock  me.     I  should  then,  with  double  pain. 

Feel  all  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime  ; 

And,  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost. 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 

I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 

Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere ; 

In  scenes,  which,  having  never  known  me  free. 


144?  THE  TASK.  BOOK    V. 

Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I  felt. 

Do  I  forebode  impossible  events, 

And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ?  Heaven  grant  I  may  ! 

But  th*  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past, 

And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 

Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.     He  that  takes 

Deep  in  his  soft  creduhty  the  stamp 

Design'd  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 

Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust. 

Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough  : 

For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found 

Where  private  was  not  ?  Can  he  love  the  whole 

Who  loves  no  part  ?  He  be  a  nation's  friend, 

Who  is,  in  truth,  the  friend  of  no  man  there  ? 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause 

Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 

That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  belov'd  ? 

'Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England's  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain, 
Healthful  and  undisturb'd  by  factious  fumes. 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 
Such  v;ere  they  not  of  old,  whose  temper'd  blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurp'd  control, 
And  hew'd  them  hnkfrom  link  :   then  Albion's  sons 
Were  sons  indeed  ;  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs  ; 


BOOK  V.  THE  WINTER  MORNISG  WALK.  145 

And,  shining  each  in  his  domestic   sphere. 
Shone  brighter  still,  once  call'd  to  public  view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  seqester'd  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event  ^ 
And,  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state. 
That  promised  once  more  firmness,  so  assail'd. 
That  all  its  tempest-^beaten  turrets  shake, 
•Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  falh 
All  has  its  date  below  ;  the  fatal  hour 
Was  registered  in  heaven  ere  time  began. 
We  turn  to  dost,  and  all  our  mightiest  worki 
Die  too  :  the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 
Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a  trace  remains. 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock  : 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood ; 
And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  searchM  in  vain> 
The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a  liberty,  unsungl 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  unprais'd. 
Which  monarchs  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  powers 
Of   earth  and  hell  confederate  take  away  : 
A  hberty,  which  persecution,  fraud, 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  power  to  bind  ; 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslaved  no  more. 
'Tis  liberty  of  heart  deriv'd  from  heaven  ; 
Bought  with  HIS  blood  who  gave  it  to  mankind. 
And  seaPd  with  the  same  token  !   It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charier  sanction'd  sure 
By  th'  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God  !    His  other  gifts     - '-  inii;nl") 
VOL.  ir,  N  ■''-  -^  -nn  coqr 


146 


THE    TASK.  BOOK   V. 


All  bear  the  royal  stamp  that  speaks  them  his, 
And  are  august  ;  but  this  transcends  them  all. 
His  other  works,  the  visible  display 
Of  all-creating  energy  and  might, 
Are  grand,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  word. 
That,  finding  an  interminable  space 
Unoccupied,  has  filPd  the  void  so   well. 
And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before* 
But  these  are  not  his  glory.     Man,  'tis  true, 
Smit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  scene. 
Might  well  suppose  th'  artificer  divine 
Meant  it  eternal,  had  he  not  himself 
Pronounced  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is, 
And,  still  designing  a  more  glorious  far, 
Doom'd  it  as  insufficient  for  his  praise. 
These,  therefore,  are  occasional,  and  pass  ; 
Form*d  for  the  confutation  of  the  fool. 
Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against  a   God  ; 
That  office  serv'd,  they  must  be  swept  away. 
Not  so  the  labours  of  his  love  :  they  shine 
In  other  heavens  than  these  that  we  behold. 
And  fade  not.     There  is  paradise  that  fears 
No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  fruits  he  sends 
Large  prelibation  oft  to  saints  below. 
Of  these  the  first  in  order,  and  the  pledge 
And  confident  assurance  of  the  rest, 
Is  liberty  : — a  flight  into  his  arms 
Ere  yet  mortahty's  fine  threads  give  way, 
A  clear  escape  from  tyrannizing  lust, 
And  full  immunity  from  penal  woe. 

Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man, 
Stripes  and  a  dungeon  j  and  his  body  serves 


BOOK  V.         THE   WINTER   MORNING  WALK.  Ht 

The  triple  purpose.     In  that  sickly,  foul. 

Opprobrious  residence,  he  finds  them  all. 

Propense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held 

In  silly  dotage  on  created  things, 

Careless  of  their  Creator.     And  that  low 

And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  powers 

To  a  vile  clod  so  draws  him,  with  such  force 

Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek, 

That  he  at  last  forgets  it.     All  his  hopes 

Tend  downward  ;  his  ambition  is  to  sink, 

To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 

Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 

Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death. 

But,  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 

He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul, 

In  heaven-renouncing  exile,  he  endures— 

What  does  he  not  ?  from  lusts  oppos'd  in  vain, 

And  self-reproaching  conscience  ?    He  foresees 

The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace. 

Fortune  and  dignity  ;  the  loss  of  all 

Tliat  can  ennoble  man,  and  make  frail  life, 

Short  as  it  is,  supportable*     Still  worse, 

Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues  with  which  his  sins 

Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  forebodes 

Ages  of  hopeless  misery.     Future  death, 

And  death  still  future.     Not  a  hasty  stroke, 

Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave  ; 

But  unrepealable  enduring  death  ! 

Scripture  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears  : 

What  none  can  prove  a  forgery,  may  be  true  ; 

What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded,  rausl. 


J4S  THE   TASK, 


BOOK  T. 


That  scruple  checks  him.     Riot  is  not  loud, 

Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it.     In  the  midst 

Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere  ; 

And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he   shines. 

Remorse  begets  reform.     His  master4ust 

I-'alls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 

And  seems  dethron'd  and  vanquish'd.     Peace  ensuew 

But  spurious  and  short4iv'd  ;  the  puny  child 

Of  self-congratulating  pride,  begot 

On  fancied  innocence.     Again  he  falls. 

And  fights  again  ;  but  finds  his  best  essay 

A  presage  ominous,  portending  still 

Its  own  dishonour  by  a  worse  relapse. 

Till  nature,  unavailing  nature,  foiPd 

So  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt^ 

Scoffs  at  her  own  performance.     Reason  now 

Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause> 

Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemn'd  ; 

With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 

And  tatter'din  the  service  of  debauch, 

Covering  his  shame  from  bis  offended  sight. 

**  Hath  God  indeed  given  appetites  to  man, 
*•  And  stor'd  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means 
*<  To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish  ; 
**  And  doth  he  reprobate,  and  will  he  damn 
**  The  use  of  his  own  bounty  ?  making  first 
•*  So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws 
**  So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair  ? 
<*  Falsehood  \  which  whoso  but  suspects  of  trutk 
<«  Dishonours  Cod,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 


BOOK  ▼.  THE  WINTER   MORNING  WALK.  14?^ 

"Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 

"  The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large 

«*  Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains, 

«  Attend  to  their  own  music  ?  have  they  faith 

«  In  what  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 

"  And  gesture  they  propound  to  our  belief  ? 

"  Nay — conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.     The  voice 

"  Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  priest 

"May  play  what  tune  he  pleases.     In  the  deed, 

"  The  unequivocal  authentic  deed, 

<^  We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart.'^ 

Such  reasonings  (if  that  name  must  need  belong 
T'  excuses  in  which  reason  has  no  part) 
Serve  to  compose  a  spirit  well  inclin'd 
To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice. 
And  sin  without  disturbance.     Often  urg'd, 
f  As  often  as  libidinous  discourse 
Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  themes 
Of  theological  and  grave  import ) 
They  gain  at  last  his  unreserved  assent  ; 
Till,  harden'd  his  heart's  temper  in  the  forge 
Of  lust,  and  on  the  anvil  of  despair. 
He  slights  the  strokes  of  conscience.    Nothing  moves. 
Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill  ; 
Vain  tampering  has  but  foster'd  his  disease  ; 
'Tis  desperate,  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death  ! 
Haste,  now,  philosopher,  and  set  him  free. 
Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.     Make  him  hear 
Of  rectitude  and  fitness,  moral  truth, 
How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure. 
Consulted,  and  obey'd,  to  guide  his  eteps 
n2 


150  THfc  TASK.  BOOKt. 

Directly  to  the   first  and  only  fair. 

Spare  not  in  such  a  cause.     Spend  all  the  powers 

Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue's  praise  : 

Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 

And  with  poetic  trappings  grace  thy  prose, 

Till  it  out-mantle  all  the  pride  of  verse. — 

Ah,  tinkhng  cymbal,  and  high  sounding  brasv 

Smitten  in  vain  !   such  music  cannot  charm 

Th'  echpse  that  intercepts  truth's  heavenly  beam. 

And  chills  and  darkens  a  wide-wandering  soul. 

The  STILL  SMALL  VOICE  is  Wanted.  He  must  speak? 

Whose  word  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect  ; 

Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  and  they  come. 

Grace  makes  the  slave  a  freeman.      ^Tis  a  change 
That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 
And  stately  tone  of  morahsts,  who  boast. 
As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown, 
They  had  indeed  ability  to  smooth 
The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  each 
An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song  ; 
But  transformation  of  apostate  man 
From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine. 
Is  work  for  him  that  made  him.     He  alone. 
And  he  by  means  in  philosophic  eyes 
Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
The  wonder,  humanizing  what  is  brute 
In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom,  overpowering  strength 
By  weakness,  and  hostility  by  love. 

Patriots  have  loil'd,  and  in  their  country's  cau3« 
Bled  nobly  ;  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 


BOOK  V,         THE  WINTER   MORNING  WALK.  1^1 

Receive  proud  recompense.     We  give  in  charge 

Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.     Th'  historic  muse^ 

Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 

To  latest  times  ;  and  sculpture,  in  her  turn, 

Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass 

To  guard  them,  and  t'  immortalize  her  trust  : 

But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid. 

To  those;  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  truth, 

Have  fallen  in  her  defence.     A  patriot's  bloody 

Well  spent  in  such  a  strife,  may  earn  indeed. 

And  for  a  time  ensure,  to  his  lov'd  land 

Ths  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws  ; 

But  martyrs  struggle  for  a  brighter  prize. 

And  win  it  with  more  pain.     Their  blood  is  shed 

In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim^- 

Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth, 

To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free. 

To  soar  and  to  anticipate  the  skies ! 

Yet  few  remember  them.     They  liv'd  unknown 

Till  persecution  dragg*d  them  into  fame. 

And  chas'd  them  up  to  heaven.     Their  ashes  flew 

— No  marble  tells  us  whither.     With  their  names 

No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song  I 

And  history,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes. 

Is  cold  on  this.     She  execrates  indeed 

The  tyranny  that  doom'd  them  to  the  fire, 

But  gives  the  glorious  sufferers  little  praise,* 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  *ruth  makes  frec^ 
And  all  are  slav<;3  beside.     Ti.ere's  not  a  chain 

♦  ^ee  Hume. 


1^2  THE  TASK,  BOOK  ▼. 

That  hellish  foes,  confederate  for  his  harm, 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  oflF 
With  as  much  ease  as  Sampson  his  green  wyths. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor  perhaps  comparM 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight y 
Call  the  dehghtful  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  vallies  hisy 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.      His  t'  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel. 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspir'd, 
Can  lift  to  heaven  on  unpresumptuous  eye, 
And  smihng  say — "  My  Father  made  them  all  1'^ 
Are  they  not  his  b  y  a  pecuhar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his, 
Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 
Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love 
That  plann'd,  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a  world- 
So  cloth 'd  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man  I 
Yes — ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 
The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  v/aste  much  good 
In  senseless  riot  ;  but  ye  will  not  find. 
In  feast  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance,. 
A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeach'  d 
Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong, 
Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work,. 
And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 
He  is  indeed  a  freeman.     Free  by  birth 
Of  no  mean  city  ;  planned  or  ere  the  hills 
Were  built,  the  fountains  open'd,  or  the  sea. 


BOOK  V.  TFTE  WINTER    MORNING  WALK.  l5St 

With  all  its  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state  f 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life^ 

So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 

firings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less  : 

For  he  has  wings,  that  neither  sickness,  pain,. 

Nor  penury,  can  cripple  or  confine* 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large,     Th'  oppressor  hold* 

His  body  bound  ;  but  knows  not  what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a  chain  ; 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt 

Whom  God  delights  ia,  aad  in  whom  he  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  would^st  taste- 
His  works.     Admitted  once  to  his  embrace, 
Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  vs^ast  blind  before : 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed ;  and  thine  heart, 
Made  pure,  shall  relish,  with  divine  dehght 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought^ 
Brutes  graze  the  niountain-top,  with  faces  prone 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow^ 
Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main, 
Man  views  it,  and  admires  ;  but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise. 
But  not  its  Author.     Unconcern'd  who  form'd 
The  paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such, 
And  such  well  pleas'd  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 
Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touch*d  from  heaven, 


154?  THE   TASK.  BOOK  V. 

And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 

To  read  his  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world. 

Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Not  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his 

Much  more  who  fashion'd  it,  he  gives  it  praise  ; 

Praise  that  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 

To  earth's  acknowledged  Sovereign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  him. 

The  soul  that  sees  him,  or  receives  sublimM, 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  t'  employ 

More  worthily  the  powers  she  own'd  before. 

Discerns  in  all  things,  what,  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlook'd — 

A  ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms 

Terrestrial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute  ; 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God 

Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 

And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Much  conversant  with  heaven,  she  often  hold* 

With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

Tliat  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference.     Inquires  what  strains  w«re  they 

With  which  heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new  created  earth, 

Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy. — "  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 

"  That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

*'  Beneath  a  vault  unsuUied  with  a  cloud, 

*^  If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 

<*  Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

"  And  systems  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

♦*  Have  reach'd  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 


BOOK  V.  THE   WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  155 

*<  Favoured  as  ours  ;  transgressors  from  the  womb, 

*'  And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doom'd  to  rise, 

"  And  to  possess  a  brighter  heaven  than  yours  ? 

"As  one,  who,  long  detained  on  foreign  shores 

<*  Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

**  His  country's  weather-bleach *d  and  batter'd  rocks, 

"  From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 

"  Radiant  with  joy  toward  the  happy  land  ; 

"  So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold, 

"  And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

**  That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

**  Ordain*d  to  guide  th'  embodied  spirit  home, 

"  From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

"  Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

**  That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

^*  And  that,  infus'd  from  heaven,  must  thither  tend," 

So  reads  he  nature  whom  the  lamp  of  truth 
Illuminates.     Thy  lamp,  mysterious  word  j 
Which  whoso  sees  no  longer  wanders  lost, 
With  intellects  bemaz'd  in  endless  doubt. 
But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.     Thou  hast  built, 
With  means  that  were  not,  till  by  thee  employed. 
Worlds  that  had  never  been  hadst  thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  are  thy  witnesses,  who  speak  thy  power 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report. 
In  vain  thy  creatures  testify  of  thee 
Till  thou  proclaim  thyself.     Theirs  is  indeed 
A  teaching  voice  ;  but  'tis  the  praise  of  thine. 
That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn. 


156  THE  TASK.  BOOKV. 

And  with  the  toon  gives  talents  for  its  use^ 

Till  thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 

Possess  the  heart,  and  fables  false  as  hell  { 

Yet  deem'd  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 

The  uninform'd  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 

We  give  to  chance,  blind  chance,  ourselves  as  blind^ 

The  glory  of  thy  work  ^  which  yet  appears 

Perfect  and  unimpeachable  of  blame, 

Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  prov'd 

Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judg'd. 

But  chance  is  not ;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign'st : 

Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  power 

(If  power  she  be  that  works  but  to  confound) 

To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  with  thy  laws. 

Yet  thus  wie  dote,  refusing  while  w^e  can 

Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves 

Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome  ;  gods  that  sleep 

Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 

Amus'd  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 

Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 

Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  thou  art  pure  ; 

Made  such  by  thee,  we  love  thee  for  that  cause 

For  which  we  shunn'd  and  hated  thee  before. 

Then  we  are  free.      Then  liberty,  like  day. 

Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  heaven 

Fires  all  tTie  faculties  with  glorious  joy. 

A  voice  is  heard  that  mortal  ears  hear  not 

Till  thou  hast  touch'd  them  ;  'tis  the  voice  of  song— 

A  loud  hosanna  sent  from  all  thy  w-orks  ; 

Which  he  that  hears  it  wath  a  shout  repeats, 

And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise. 


BOOK  V.  TH-E  WINTER   MORNING    Wx\LK.  15? 

In  that  blest  moment,  Nature,  throwing  wide 
Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 
The  Author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retir'd 
Behind  his  own  creation,  works  unseen 
By  the  impure,  and  hears  his  power  denied. 
Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds. 
Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word  ! 
From  thee  departing,  they  are  lost,  and  rove 
At  random,  without  honour,  hope,  or  peace. 
From  thee  is  all  that  sooths  the  life  of  man, 
His  high  endeavor  and  his  glad  success. 
His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 
But  oh,  thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 
Thou  art  of  all  thy  gifts  thyself  the  crown  1 
Give  what  thou  canst,  without  thee  we  are  poor  ; 
And  with  thee  rich,  take  what  thou  wilt  away. 


VOL.   !!• 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SIXTH  BOOK. 

Balls  at  a  distance. — Their  effect, -^  ji  Jlne  noon  in  ^winter* 
— j4  sheltered  nvalh — Meditation  better  than  books, — 
Cur  familiarity  *with  the  course  of  nature  makes  it  appear 
iess  nvonderful  than  it  is* — The  transformation  that 
spring  efftcts  in  a  shrubbery  described,^^A  mistake  con^ 
<erning  the  course  of  nature  corrected,'^^God  maintains  it 
ly  an  unremitted  act, — The  amusements  fashionable  at 
this  hour  of  the  day  reproved, — Animals  happy^  a  de* 
light ful  sight, — Origin  of  cruelty  to  animals, — That  it 
is  a  great  crime  proved  from  scripture.'^That  proof  il* 
lustratedby  a  tale, — A  line  drawn  between  the  lawful 
and  unlawful  destruction  of  them.-^^Their  good  and  use» 
Jul  properties  insisted  on,— -Apology  for  the  encomiums  he^ 
stowed  by  the  author  on  animals. — Instances  of  man*  s  ex^ 
travagant  praise  of  man, — The  groans  of  the  creation 
shall  have  an  end, — A  view  taken  of  the  restoration  of 
<dl  things — An  invocation  and  an  invitation  of  him  who 
4hall  bring  it  to  pass, — The  retired  man  vindicated  from 
the  charge  of  uselessnessi— Conclusion. 


THE  TASK. 


£06K  r/» 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


% 


HERE  IS  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds) 
And  as  the  mind  is  pitch'd,  the  ear  is  pleas'd 
With  melting  airs,  or  martial,  brisk,  or  grave  ; 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  repHes, 
How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 
Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away. 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 
Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on  ! 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  memory  slept.     Wherever  I  have  heard 
A  kindred  melody  the  scene  recurs, 
And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 
Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes. 
That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 
(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 


^^  THE  TASK.  BOOK  IT. 

The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 

Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems, 

It  seem'd  not  always  short  ;  the  rugged  path, 

And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and    forlorn, 

Mov'd  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheartening  length. 

Yet,  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 

Taintly  impress  the  mind,  or  not  at  all, 

How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revokM, 

That  we  might  try  the  ground  again,  where  once 

(Through  inexperience,  as  we  now  perceive) 

We  missM  that  happiness  we  might  have  found  ! 

Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend  \ 

A  father,  whose  authority  in  show 

When  most  severe,  and  mustering  all  its  force, 

Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love  ; 

Whose  favour,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might  lower, 

And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice,^ 

But  had  a  blessing  in  its> darkest  frown. 

Threatening  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 

We  lov'd,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 

That  rear'd  us.     At  a  thoughtless  age,  allur'd 

By  every  gilded  folly,  we  renounc'd 

His  sheltering  side,  and  wilfully  forewent 

That  converse  which  we  now  in  vain  regret ! 

How  gladly  would  the  man  recal  to  life 

The  boy's  neglected  sire  !   a  mother,  too. 

That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still, 

Might  he  demand  t^em  at  the  gates  of  death. 

Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdu'd  and  tam'd 

The  playful  humour  i  he  could  now  endure,. 

(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vaV  of  tears }^ 


BOOK  VI.  THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON,        161 

And  feel  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint* 

But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth 

Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  slighted  good. 

Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel, 

And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 

The  few  that  pray  at  all  pray  oft  amiss, 

And,  seeking  grace  t*  improve  the  prize  they  hold, 

Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  m.ood  ; 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills. 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzhng  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale  ; 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  th'  embattled  tower 
Whence  all  the  music.      I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 
The  roDf,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufSc'd, 
And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  fre  quent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 
No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 
The  red-breast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppressed  ; 
Pleas'd  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
o   2 


162  THE  TASK.  BOOK  IV. 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice, 

That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 

Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  here 

May  think  down  hours  to  moments.     Here  the  heart 

May  give  an  useful  lesson  to  the  head. 

And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one. 

Have  oft-times  no  connexion.      Knowledge  dwells 

In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men; 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 

The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds. 

Till  smoothed  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its  place, 

Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  t'  enrich. 

Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learn'd  so  much ; 

Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells. 

By  whi  ch  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 

Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  cnthrall'd. 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 

Surrender  judgment  hood-wink'd.     Some  the  style 

Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 

Of  error  leads  them  by  a  tune  entranced. 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 

The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought, 

And  swallowing,  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice. 

The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  trees,  and  rivulets  whose  rapid  course 

Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer, 


BOOK  YI.    THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON,      163 

And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  kmbs. 

And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 

Peeps  through  the   moss  that   clothes  the  hawthora 

root. 
Deceive  no  student.     Wisdom  there,  and  truth. 
Not  shy,  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  woa 
By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 
The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 

What  prodigies  can  power  divine  perforni 
More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year. 
And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man  ? 
Familiar  with  th'  effect  we  slight  the  cause. 
And,  in  the  constancy  of  nature's  course. 
The  regular  return  of  genial  months. 
And  renovation  of  a  faded  world, 
See  naught  to  wonder  at.     Should  God  again. 
As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 
Of  the  undeviating  and  punctual  sun. 
How  would  the  world  admire  !   but  speaks  it  less 
An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 
His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise, 
Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course  i 
All  we  behold  is  miracle  ;  but,  seen 
So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 
Where  now  the  vital  energy  that  mov'd. 
While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtile  lymph 
Through  th*  imperceptible  meandering  veins 
Of  leaf  and  flower  ?  It  sleeps ;  and  th'  icy  touch 
Of  unprolific  winter  has  impress'd 
A  cold  stagnation  on  th'  intestine  tide. 
But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months^ 


164  THE  TASK, 


BOOK  VI 


And  all  shall  be  restored.     These  nakei  shoots, 

Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 

Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes. 

Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 

And,  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread. 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost. 

Then  each  in  its  peculiar  honours  clad, 

Shall  publish,  even  to  the  distant  eye. 

Its  family  and  tribe.     Labernum,  rich 

In  streaming  gold  ;  syringa,  ivory  pure  ; 

The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose  ;  this  red. 

And  of  a  humbler  growth,  the  other*  tall, 

And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 

Of  neighboring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 

Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf 

That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  v^^ave  ; 

The  lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white, 

Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 

With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if, 

Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolv'd 

Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  them  all  ; 

Copious  of  flowers,  the  woodbine  pale  and  wan. 

But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 

With  never-cloying  odours,  early  and  late  ; 

Hypericum,  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm 

Of  flowers,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 

That  scarce  a  leaf  appears ;  mezerion,  too. 

Though  leafless,  well  attir'd,  and  thick  beset 

With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray  j 


*  The  Gneld«r-rosc 


B0«K  VI.       THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  16* 

Althaea  with  the  purple  eye  ;  the  broom,. 

Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloy'd, 

Her  blossoms  ;  and,  luxuriant  above  all. 

The  jasmine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets,. 

The  deep  dark  green  of  w^hose  unvarnish'd  leaf 

Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more 

The  bright  profusion  of  her  scatter'd  stars. 

These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day  ;. 

And  all  this  uniform,  uncolour'd  scene, 

Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 

And  flush  into  variety  again. 

From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life^ 

Is  Nature's  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 

In  heavenly  truth  ;  evincing,  as  she  makes 

The  grand  transition,  that  there  lives  and  works 

A  soul  in  all  things,  and  that  soul  is  God, 

The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  his, 

That  make  so  gay  the  solitary  place 

Where  no  eye  sees  them.     And  the  fairer  forms 

That  cultivation  glories  in  are  his, 

He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way, 

And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year  ; 

He  marks  the  bounds  which  winter  may  not  pass^ 

And  blunts  his  pointed  fury  ;  in  its^  case. 

Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ, 

Uninjur'd,  with  inimitable  art  ; 

And,  ere  one  flowery  season  fades  and  dies. 

Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 

Some  say,  that,  in  the  origin  of  things^ 
When  all  creation  started  into  birth. 
The  infant  elements  received  a  law. 


166  THE  TASK,  BOOKVt, 

From  which  they  swerve  not  since.     That  under  force 

Of  that  controUing  ordinance  they  move, 

And  need  not  his  immediate  hand,  who  first 

Prescrib'd  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now. 

Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a  Grod 

Th'  incumbrance  of  his  own  concerns,  and  spare 

The  great  artificer  of  all  that  moves 

The  stress  of  a  continual  act,  the  paia 

Of  unremitted  vigilance  and  care. 

As  too  laborious  and  severe  a  task. 

So  man,  the  moth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems. 

To  span  omnipotence,  and  measure  might , 

That  knows  no  measure,  by  the  scanty  rule 

And  standard  of  his  own,  that  is  to  day. 

And  is  not  ere  to-morrow's  sun  go  down  t 

But  how  should  matter  occupy  a  charge, 

Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a  law 

So  vast  in  its  demands,  unless  impell'd 

To  ceaseless  service  by  a  ceaseless  force. 

And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause  ? 

The  Lord  of  all,  himself  thro  ugh  all  diflfus'd, 

Sustains,  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives. 

Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect, 

Whose  cause  is  God.     He  feeds  the  secret  fire 

By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintained. 

Who  sleeps  not,  is  not  weary ;  in  whose  sight 

Slow-circling  ages  are  as  transient  days  ; 

Whose  work  is  without  labour ;  whose  designs 

No  flaw  deforms,  no  difiiculty  thwarts  ; 

And  whose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts. 

Him  blind  antiquity  profan'd,  not  serv'd, 


BOOK  VI.         THE     WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  1^7 

With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names. 

Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,    Pan, 

And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus  ;  peopHng  earth 

With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods 

That  were  not ;  and  commending,  as  they  would, 

To  each  some  province,  garden,  field  or  grove. 

But  all  are  under  one.     One  spirit — his 

Who  wore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding  brows — 

Rules  universal  nature.     Not  a  flower 

But  shows  some  touch,  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain. 

Of  his  unrivalPd  pencil.     He  inspires 

Their  balmy  odours,  and  imparts  their  hues. 

And  bathes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes. 

In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands. 

The  forms  with  which  he  sprinkles  all  the  earth. 

Happy  who  walks  with  him  !    whom  what  he  finds 

Of  flavour  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower. 

Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 

In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestic  oak 

To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun. 

Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God  ! 

His  presence,  who  made  all  so  fair,  perceiv'd, 

Makes  all  still  fairer.     As  with  him  no  scene 

Is  dreary,  so  with  him  all  seasons  please. 

Though  winter  had  been  none,  had  man  been  true. 

And  earth  be  punish'd  for  its  tenant's  sake, 

Yet  not  in  vengeance  ;  as  this  smiling  sky. 

So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night. 

And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream 

Recovering  fast  its  liquid  music,  prove. 


1'68  THE  TASK,  BOOK  YI. 

Who,  then,  that  has  a  mind  well  strung  and  tun'd 
To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 
A  scene  so  friendly  to  his  favourite  task, 
Would  waste  attention  at  the  chequer'd  board, 
His  host  of  wooden  warriors  to  and  fro 
Marching  and  countermarching,  with  an -eye 
As  fix'd  as  marble,  with  a  forehead  ridg'd 
And  furrow'd  into  storms,  and  with  a  hand 
Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung 
In  balance  on  his  conduct  of  a  pin  ?— 
Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport, 
Who  pant  with  appHcation  misapplied 
To  trivial  toys,  and,  pushing  ivory  balls 
Across  a  velvet  level,  feel  a  joy 
Akin  to  rapture  when  the  bawble  finds 
Its  destin'd  goal,  of  diflicult  access, — 
Nor  deems  he  wiser  him,  who  gives  his  noon 
To  miss,  the  mercer's  plague,  from  shop  to  shop 
Wandering,  and  littering  with  unfolded  silks 
The  poli&h'd  counter,  and  approving  none. 
Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again,— 
Nor  him,  who  by  his  vanity  seduc'd. 
And  sooth'd  into  a  dream  that  he  -discerns 
The  difference  of  a  Guidofroma  daub, 
Frequents  the  crowded  auction  :   station'd  there 
A  9  duly  as  the  Langford  of  the  show, 
With  glass  at  eye,  and  catalogue  in  hand, 
And  tongue  accomplish'd  in  the  fulsome  cant 
And  pedantry  that  coxcombs  learn  with  ease  j 
Oft  as  the  price-deciding  hammer  falls 
He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box. 
Swears  'tis  a  bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate 


P,r^,.n/o^ 


/yioa'?f    e/o/a//if//^Y    //V//y  A/ej  /  yr^ffe?i/^{7/ff^/^, 


i&OOK  VI,         THE     WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  169 

That  he  has  let  it  pass — but  never  bids ! 

Here,  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 
The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander.     Neither  mist. 
Nor  freezing  sky  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 
Nor  stranger  intemieddling  mith  my  joy. 
Even  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 
That  calls  th'  unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train. 
To  gather  king^cups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
A.nd  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  sallad  from  the  brook. 
These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest. 
Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stock^dove,  unalarm'd 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 
Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm 
That  age  or  injury  has  hollow 'd  deep, 
Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves. 
He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 
To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun. 
The  squirrel,  fiippant,  p^rt    and  full  of  play  ; 
He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 
Ascends  the    neighboring   beach  )    there    whisks  his 

brush. 
And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps  and  cries  aloud, 
With  ail  the  prettiness  oi  fcigii'd  alarm, 
And  anger  insignificantly  fierce* 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 

V<>L.   11.  ^      |i 


170 


THE   TASK.  BOOK  VI. 


To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleas'd 

W  ith  sight  of  animals  enjoying  hfe, 

Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 

The  bounding  fawn,  that  darts  across  the  glade 

When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart, 

And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee  ; 

The  horse  as  wanton,  and  almost  as  fleet. 

That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed. 

Then  stops  and  snorts,  and  throwing  high  his  heels^ 

Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again  ; 

The  very  kine  that  gambol  at  high  noon, 

The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one 

That  leads  the  dance  a  summons  to  be  gay, 

Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 

Their  efforts,  yet  resolv'd  with  one  consent 

To  give  such  act  an  utterance  as  they  may 

To  ecstacy  too  big  to  be  suppressed — 

These,  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss. 

With  which  kind  nature  graces  every  scene 

Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design, 

Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 

All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleas'd, 

A  far  superior  happiness  to  theirs. 

The  comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 

Man  scarce  had  risen,  obedient  to  his  cali 
Who  form'd  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave. 
When  he  was  crown'd  as  never  king  was  since, 
God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head. 
And  angel  choirs  attended.     Wondering  stood 
The  new  made  monarch,  while  before  him  pass'd, 
AH  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind, 


tOOat  VI.       THE  WINTER  WALK  AT   NOON.  171 

The  creatures  summon'd  from  their  various  haunts 

To  see  their  sovereign,  and  confess  his  swaj. 

Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  his  power. 

Or  bounded  only  by  a  law,  whose  force 

'Twas  his  sublimest  privilege  to  feel 

And  own — the  law  of  universal  love. 

He  ruPd  with  meekness,  they  obey'd  with  joy  ; 

No  cruel  purpose  lurkM  within  his  heart, 

And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 

So  Eden  was  a  scene  of  harmless  sport, 

Where  kindness  on  his  part  who  ruPd  the  whole 

Begat  a  tranquil  confidence  in  all. 

And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 

But  sin  marr'd  all  ;  and  the  revolt  of  man, 

That  source  of  evils  not  exhausted  yet. 

Was  punish'd  with  revolt  of  his  from  him. 

Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 

Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witness'd  !   Every  fieart, 

Each  animal  of  every  name  conceivM 

A  jealousy  and  an  instinctive  fear, 

And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled 

Precipitate  the  loath'd  abode  of  man, 

Or  growPd  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 

As  taught  him,  too,  to  tremble  in  his  turn. 

Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 

Were  driven  from  Paradise  ;  and  in  that  hour 

The  seeds  of  cruelty  that  since  have  swelled 

To  such  gigantic  and  enormous  growth, 

Were  sown  in  human  nature's  fruitful  soiL 

Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain 

That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferior  kinds, 


172  THE  TASK*  BOOK  VU 

Regardless  of  their  plaints.     To  make  him  sport> 
To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath, 
Or  his  base  gluttony,  are  causes  good 
And  just,  in  his  account,  why  bird  and  beast 
Should  suffer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  dy'd 
With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impal'd. 
Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a  war 
Wag'd  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he^ 
Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around, 
Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death  by  pangs 
Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours^ 
Now  happiest  they  that  occupy  the  scenes 
The  most  remote  from  his  abhorrM  resort, 
Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth. 
They  fear'd,  and  as  his  perfedl  image,  lovM. 
The  wilderness  is  theirs^  with  all  its  caves, 
Its  hollow  glens,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains,^ 
Unvisited  by  man.     There  they  are  free. 
And  howl  and  roar  as  Hkes  them,  uncontrolled  |. 
Nor  ask  his  leave  to  slumber  or  to  play. 
Woe  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 
Within  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain  ! 
The  lion  tells  him — I  am  monarch  here  I 
And  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 
Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  generous  scora 
To  rend  a  victim  trembhng  at  his  foot. 
In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 
Or  by  necessity  constrained,  they  live 
Dependent  upon  man  ;  those  in  his  fields, 
These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof, 
1  hey  prove  too  often  at  how  dear  a  rate 


BOOK  VI.    THE  WINTER 'WALK  AT  NOON.       173 

He  sells  protection. — Witness  at  his  foot 
The  spaniel  dying,  for  some  venial  fault. 
Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge- 
Witness  the  patient  ox,  with  stripes  and  yells 
Driven  to  the  slaughter,  goaded,  as  he  runs, 
To  madness  ;  while  the  savage  at  his  heels 
Laughs  at  the  frantic  sufferer's  fury  spent 
Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  overthrown. 
He  too,  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  train 
That  wait  on  man,  the  flight-performing  horse  : 
With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 
His  murderer  on  his  back,  and  push'd  all  day, 
With  bleeding  sides  and  flanks  that  heave  for  Hfe, 
To  the  far-distant  goal,  arrives  and  dies. 
So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much  ! 
Does  law,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man, 
Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent  ? — None. 
He  lives,  and  o'er  his  brimming  beaker  boasts 
(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert) 
Th'  inglorious  feat,  and,  clamorous  in  praise 
Of  the  poor  brute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 
The  honours  of  his  matchless  horse  his  own  ! 
But  many  a  crime,  deem'd  innocent  on  earth. 
Is  reglster'd  in  heaven  ;  and  these,  no  doubt. 
Have  each  their  record,  with  a  curse  annexM. 
Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart, 
But  God  will  never.     When  he  charg'd  the  Jew 
T'  assist  his  foe's  down -fallen  beast  to  rise  ; 
And  when  the  bush-exploring  boy,  that  selz'd 
The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free  ; 
Prov'd  he  not  plainly  that  his  meaner  wo*ks 
Are  yet  his  care,  and  have  an  interest  all, 
p2 


17^  rnt  TASK*  BOOK  Vl^ 

All,  in  the  universal  Father's  love  ? 

On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind. 

The  charter  was  conferred  by  which  we  hold 

The  flesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim 

O'er  all  we  feed  on  power  of  life  and  death. 

But  lead  the  instrument,  and  mark  it  well  ; 

Th'  oppression  of  a  tyrannous  control 

Can  find  no  warrant  there.     Feed,  then,  and  yield 

Thanks  for  thy  food.      Carnivorous,  through  sin, 

Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  living  brute  ! 

The  Governor  of  all,  himself  to  all 
So  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear 
The  unfledged  raven  and  the  lion's  whelp 
Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 
Of  hunger  unassuag'd,  has  interpos'd. 
Not  seldom,  his  avenging  arm,  to  smite 
Th'  injurious  trampler  upon  nature's  law. 
That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a  brute. 
He  hates  the  hardness  of  a  Balaam's  heart ; 
And,  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 
The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke. 
On  which  he  rode.     Her  opportune  offence 
Sav'd  him,  or  the  unrelenting  seer  had  died. 
He  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 
To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a  cause  ; 
And  makes  the  task  his  own.     Inspiring  dumb 
And  helpless  victims  with  a  sense  so  keen 
Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength. 
And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge. 
That  oft  the  beast  has  seem'd  to  judge  the  mam 
An  ancient,  not  a  legendary  tale, 


BOOK  VI.        THE  WIHTEK  WALK  AT  NOON.  175 

By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehears'd, 

(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 

In  modern  eyes)  shall  make  the  doctrine  clear.— 

Where  England,  stretch *d  towards  the  setting  sun^. 
Narrow  and  long,  overlooks  the  western  wave. 
Dwelt  young  Misagathus ;  a  scorner  he 
Of  God  and  goodness,  atheist  in  ostent, 
Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage -fierce. 
He  journey 'd  ;  and  his  chance  was  as  he  went. 
To  join  a  traveller,  of  far  different  note— 
Evander,  fam'd  for  piety,  for  years 
Deserving  honour,  but  for  wisdom  more. 
Fame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man 
A  stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth. 
Whose  face,  too,  was  familiar  to  his  view. 
Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land. 
O'er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks,  whose  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high. 
The  charity  that  warm'd  his  heart  was  mov*d 
At  sight  of  the  man -monster.     With  a  smile 
Gentle,  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace. 
As  fearful  of  offending  whom  he  wish'd 
Much  to  persuade,  he  plied  his  ear  with  truths 
Not  harshly  thunder'd  forth  or  rudely  press'd, 
But,  hke  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind  and  sweet. 

"  And  dost  thou  dream,'*  th'  impenetrable  man 
Exclaim'd,  **  that  me  the  lullabies  of  age, 
*'  And  fantasies  of  dotards,  such  as  thou, 
**  Can  cheat,  or  move  a  moment 's  fear  in  me  ? 
•'  Mark  now  the  proof  I  give  thee,  that  the  brave 
**  Need  no  such  aids  as  superstition  lend« 


176  TtiL  TASK,  B60K  VI, 

*«  To  Steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death,'* 

He  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 

Pushed  with  a  madman's  fury.     Fancy  shrinks, 

And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles,  at  the  thought 

Of  such  a  gulf  as  he  designM  his  grave. 

But,  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 

The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational,  his  steed 

Declln'd  the  death,  and  wheeling  swiftly  round, 

Or  e'er  his  hoof  had  press'd  the  crumbhng  verge. 

Baffled  his  rider,  sav*d  against  his  will ! 

The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redressed 

By  medicine  well  applied,  but  without  grace 

The  heart's  insanity  admits  no  cure, 

Enrag'd  the  more,  by  what  might  have  reform'd 

His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought 

Destruction,  with  a  zeal  to  be  destroy''d, 

With  sounding  whip,  and  rowels  died  in  blood. 

But  still  in  vain.     The  Providence,  that  meant 

A  longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 

Spar'd  yet  again  th'  ignobler,  for  his  sake. 

And  now,  his  prowess  prov'd,  and  his  sincere 

Incurable  obduracy  evinced,  [earned 

His  rage  grew  cool  ;  and,   pleas'd  perhaps  t'    have 

So  cheaply  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 

With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resum'd 

His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 

Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 

Fix'd  motionless,  and  petrified  with  dread. 

So  on  they  far'd.     Discourse  on  other  themes 

Ensuing,  seem'd  t'  obliterate  the  past  ; 

And,  tamer  far  for  so  much  fury  shown, 

(As  is  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  men) 


BOOK  VI.    THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.       177 

The  rude  companion  smiPd,  as  if  transform'd- 

But  'twas  a  transient  calm.     A  storm  was  near, 

An  unsuspected  storm.     His  hour  was  come. 

The  impious  challenger  of  power  divine 

Was  now  to  learn,  that  Heaven,  though  slow  to  wrath. 

Is  never  >vith  impunity  defied. 

His  horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master's  mood. 

Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage, 

Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controlled, 

Rush*d  to  the  cliff,  and,  having  reached  it,  stood. 

At  once  the  shock  unseated  him  :  he  flew 

Sheer  o'er  the  craggy  barrier  ;  and,  immers*d 

Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not, 

The  death  he  had  deserv'd — and  died  alone  ! 

So  God  wrought  double  justice  ;  made  the  fool 

The  victim  of  his  own  tremendous  choice. 

And  taught  ?.  brute  the  way  to  safe  revenge. 

BT     I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 

(Though  grac'd  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sense> 

Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 

Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 

An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 

That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path  ; 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarn'd, 

Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 

The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 

And  charg'd  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intruder, 

A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose — th'  alcove. 

The  chaniber,  or  refectory — may  die ; 

A  neces:ary  act  incurs  noblame. 


17S  THE  TASK.  BOOK  VK 

Not  SO  when  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 

And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  : 

There  they  are  priviledg'd  ;  and  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 

Disturbs  th'  economy  of  nature's  realm, 

Who,  when  she  form'd,  designed  them  an  abode. 

Tlie  sum  is  this. — If  man's  convenience,  health, 

Or  safety,  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are— 

As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life. 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 

\Vho,  in  his  sovereign  wisdom,  made  them  all. 

Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 

To  love  it  too.     The  spring-time  of  our  years 

Is  soon  dishonour'd  and  defiled  in  most 

By  budding  illc,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 

To  check  them.     But,  alas !   none  sooner  shoots^ 

If  unrestrained,  into  luxuriant  growth. 

Than  cruelty,  most  devilish  of  them  all. 

Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 

And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act. 

By  which  Heaven  moves  in  pardoning  guilty  man  f 

And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years 

And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 

Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn*- 

Distinguished  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures  that  exist  but  for  our  sake. 
Which,  having  serv'd  us,  perish,  we  are  held 


BOOK  VI.         THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  179 

Accountable  ;  and  God,  some  future  day, 

Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  th'  abuse 

Of  what  he  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 

Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 

Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  theirs. 

Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  given 

In  aid  of  our  defects.     In  some  are  found 

Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts. 

That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 

Match'd  with  th'  expert ness  of  the  brute's  in  theirs, 

Ar«  oft-times  vanquished  and  thrown  far  behind.. 

Some  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smell. 

And  read  with  such  discernment,  in  the  port 

And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim. 

That  oft  we  owe  our  safety  to  a  skill 

We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn. 

But  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 

To  quadruped  instructors,  many  a  good 

And  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too, 

Rarely  exemplified  among  ourselves. 

Attachment  never  to  be  wean'd,  or  chang'd 

By  any  change  of  fortune  ;   proof  alike 

Against  unkindness,  absence,  and  neglect; 

Fidelity,  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 

Can  move  or  warp  ;  and  gratitude  for  small 

And  trivial  favours  lasting  as  the  life, 

And  glistening  even  in  the  dying  eye. 

Man  praises  man.     Desert  in  arts  or  arms 

Wins  pubHc  honour  ;  and  ten  thousand  sit 

Patiently  present  at  a  sacred  song, 

-Commemoration-mad  ;  content  to  hear 

;(0h  wonderful  elTect  of  music's  power! 


ISO  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  VI. 


Messiah's  eulogy  for  Handel's  sake  ! 

But  less,  methinks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve— 

(For,  was  it  less  ?  what  heathen  would  have  darM 

To  strip  Jove's  statue  of  his  oaken  wreath, 

And  hang  it  up  in  honour  of  a  man  ?) 

Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 

Is  but  to  gratify  an  itching  ear. 

And  give  the  day  to  a  musician's  praise. 

Remember  Handel  ?  Who,  that  was  not  born 

Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets. 

Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age  ? 

Yes — we  remember  him  ;  and,  while  we  praise 

A  talent  so  divine,  remember  too, 

That  his  most  holy  book  from  whom  it  came, 

Was  never  meant,  was  never  us'd  before, 

To  buckram  out  the  memory  of  a  man. 

But  hush  ! — ^the  muse  perhaps  is  too  severe  ; 

And,   with  a  gravity  beyond  the  size 

And  measure  of  th'  offence,  rebukes  the  deed 

Less  impious  than  absurd,  and  owing  more 

To  want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design. 

So  in  the  chapel  of  old  Ely-House. 

When  wandering  Cliarles,  who  meant  to  be  the  third. 

Had  fled  from  William,  and  the  news  was  fresh, 

The  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce, 

And  eke  did  rear  right  merrily ►  two  staves. 

Sung  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  King  George  ! 

— Man  praises  man  ;  and  Garrick's  memory  next. 

When  time  hath  somewhat  mellow'd  it,  and  made 

The  idol  of  our  worship  v/hile  he  liv'd 

The  God  of  u  jr  idolatry  once  more, 

Shall  have  its  altar  ;  and  the  world  shall  go 


BOOK  VI,         THE    WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  ISJ 

In  pilgrimage  to  bow  before  his  shrine. 

The  theatre,  too  small,  shall  suffocate 

Its  squeezed  contents,  and  more  than  it  admits 

Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 

Ungratified.     For  there  some  noble  lord 

Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  King  Richard's  bunch, 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet's  inky  cloak. 

And  strut,  and  storm,  and  straddle,  stamp  and  starCf 

To  show  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act— 

For  Garrick  was  a  worshipper  himself  ; 

He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  framed  the  rites 

And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day. 

And  call'd  the  world  to  worship  on  the  banks 

Of  Avon,  fam'd  in  song.     Ah,  pleasant  proof 

That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 

Some  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The  mulberry-tree  was  hung  with  blooming  wreaths ; 

The  mulberry-tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance  ; 

The  mulberry-tree  was  hymn*d  with  dulcet  airs  ; 

And  from  his  touch-wood  trunk  the  mulberry-tree 

Supplied  such  relics  as  devotion  holds 

Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care. 

So  'twas  a  hallow'd  time  :  decorum  reign'd. 

And  mirth  without  offence.     No  few  return'd, 

Doubtless,  much  edified,  and  all  refresh'd. 

—  Man  praises  man.     The  rabble,  all  alive. 

From  tippling-benches,  cellars,  stalls,  and  styes. 

Swarm  in  the  streets.     The  statesman  of  the  day, 

A  pompous  and  slow-moving  pageant,  comes. 

Some  shout  him,  and  some  hang  upon  his  car. 

To  gaze  in  's  eyes,  and  bless  him.     Maidens  wave 

Their  'kerchiefs,  and  old  women  weep  for  joy  j 

VofL.  ri.  Q 


182  THE  TASK. 


BOOK  Vf. 


While  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 

The  gilded  equipage,  and,  turning  loose 

His  steeds,  usurp  a  place  they  well  deserve. 

Why  ?  what  has  charm'd  them  i    Hath  he  sav'd  the 

state  ? 
No.     Doth  he  purpose  its  salvation  ?  No. 
Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  full, 
That  finds  out  every  crevice  of  the  head 
That  is  not  sound  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 
Wrought  this  disturbance.      But  the  wane  is  near. 
And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  him  soon. 
Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise, 
And  dedicate  a  tribute,  in  its  use 
And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a  thing 
Doom'd  to  the  dust,  or  lodg'd  already  there  ! 
Encomium  in  old  time  was  poet's  work  ; 
But,  poets  having  lavishly  long  since 
Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 
The  task  now  falls  into  the  pubhc  hand ; 
And  I,  contented  with  an  humble  theme, 
Have  pour'd  my  stream  of  panegyric  down 
The  vale  of  nature,  where  it  creeps,  and  winds 
Among  her  lovely  works    with  a  secure 
And  unambitious  course,  reflecting  clear. 
If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth,  of  brutes. 
And  I  am  recompensed,  and  deem  the  toils 
Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 
May  stand  between  an  animal  and  woe, 
And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 

The  groans  of  nature  in  this  nether  world, 
Which  Heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 


BOOK  VI.    THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  KOOX,       183 

Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophets'  lamp> 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promis*d  sabbath,  comes* 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well  nigh 
Fulfilled  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things, 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest  ; 
For  HE,  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  cloudl 
Thj  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march. 
When  sin  hath  mov*d  him,  and  his  wrath  is  hot, 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy  ;  shall  descend, 
Propitious,  in  his  chariot  pav'd  with  love  ; 
And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  defac'd 
For  man*s  revolt  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wrong'd  by  a  mere  mortal  touch  : 
Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 
But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetic  liowers, 
Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair. 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels  4 

To  give  it  praise  proportion'd  to  its  worth. 
That  not  t'  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labour,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

Oh  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true. 
Scenes  of  accomplish'd  bliss  !    which  who  can  see. 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 


1^  THE  TASK.  BOOR  \U 

His  soul  refreshed  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  ^ 

Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 

And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  ;  the  reproach 

Of  barrenness  is  past.     The  fruitful  field 

Laughs  with  abundance  ;  and  the  land,  once  lean^ 

Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 

EkuUs  to  sec  its  thistly  curse  repealed* 

The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 

And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring, 

The  garden  fears  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fencr, 

For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 

The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  tlie  bear 

Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks  ;  all  bask  at  nooa 

Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 

Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 

Antipathies  are  none*     No  foe  to  maa 

Lurks  in  the  serpent  now  :  the  mother  sees, 

And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 

Stretch'd  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm. 

To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 

The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 

Ail  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 

One  Lord,  one  Father.     Error  has  no  place : 

That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away  ;. 

The  breath  of  heaven  has  chasM  it.     In  the  heart 

IKo  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 

But  all  is  harmony  atid  love.     Disease 

Is  not  :  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  blood 

Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 

One  song  employs  all  nations ;  and  all  cry, 

'<  Worthy  the  L^irab,  for  he  was  slain  for  us  !'* 


BOOK  VI.         THE   WINTER  WALK  AT   NOON.  185 

The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and   on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain  tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy  ; 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 
Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  fiU'd  ; 
See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a  God  ! 
Bright  as  a  sun  the  sacred  city  shines  ; 
All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 
Flock  to  that  light  ;  the  glory  of  all  lands 
Flows  into  her  :  unbounded  is  her  joy, 
And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there, 
*Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  oi  Kedar  there  ; 
The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 
And  Saba's  spicy  groves,  pay  tiibute  there. 
Praise  is  in  all  her  gates  :  upon  her  walls, 
And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 
Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there 
Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 
And  Ethiopia  spreads  abroad   the  hand. 
And  worships.     Her  report  has  travell'd  forth 
Into  all  lands.     From  every  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty  and  to  share  thy  joy, 
O  Sion  !   an  assembly  such  as  earth 
Saw  never,  such  as  heaven  stoops  down  to  see. 


*  Ncbaioth  and  KeJar,  the  sons  of  Ishmael,  and  progenitors 
cf  the  Arabs,  in  the  prophetic  scripture  here  alluded  to,  may 
te  reasonably  considered  as  representalives-of  the   Centilcs  at 

tt2 


,     ISe  THE  TASK.  BOOK  VU 

Thus  heaven-ward  all  things  tend.     For  all   were 
once 
Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restorM. 
So  God  has  greatly  purposed  ;  who  would  eke 
In  his  dishonoured  works  himself  endure 
Dishonour,  and  be  wrong'd  without  redress. 
Haste,  then,  and  wheel  away  a  shattered  worlds 
Ye  slow»revolving  seasons  !  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet) 
A  world  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  his  laws, 
And  suffer  for  its  crime  ;  would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is  that  God  pronounces  good, 
How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleases  him. 
Here  every  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting  ; 
Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  flowers  ^ 
And  even  the  joy  that  haply  some  poor  heart 
Derives  from  heaven,  pure  as  the  fountain  is. 
Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a  teint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure.. 
Oh  for  a  world  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish  !   over  which 
Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway, 
That  govern  all  things  here,  shouldering  aside 
The  meek  and  modest  truth,  and  forcing  her 
To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  strife 
In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  ways  of  men  :•— 
Where  violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 
Nor  cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong, 
Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears  :  — 
Where  he  that  fills  an  office  shall  esteem 


jBOOK  Vi.       THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOOK-  187 

Th'  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 

More  than  the  perquisite : — where  law  shall  speak 

Seldom,  and  never  but  as  wisdom  prompts 

And  equity  ;  not  jealous  more  to  guard 

A  worthless  form,  than  to  decide  aright :— ^ 

Where  fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 

Nor  smooth  good-breeding  (supplemental  grace)? 

With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  love  I 

Come  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns^. 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth. 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy  t  It  was  thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  nature's  birth  ;, 
And  thou  hast  made  it  thine  by  purchase  since. 
And  overpaid  its  value  with  thy  blood. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king  ;  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a  pen 
Dipp*d  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king  ;  and  thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see 
The  dawn  of  thy  last  advent,  long  desir'd. 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills. 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  world  is  tir'd 
Of  its  own  taunting  question,  ask*d  so  long, 
"  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach  T* 
The  infidel  has  shot  his  bolts  away, 
Till  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none. 
He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts  that  have  recoil'd,. 
And  aims  them  at  the  shield  of  truth  again. 
The  veil  is  rent,  rent  too  by  priestly  haads> 


188  TH£  TASK.  BOOK  VI. 

That  hides  divinity  from  mortal  eyes  ; 

And  all  the  mysteries  to  faith  proposed. 

Insulted  and  traduc'd,  are  cast  aside, 

As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats. 

They  now  are  deem'd  the  faithful,  and  are  prais'd. 

Who,  constant  only  in  rejecting  thee, 

Deny  thy  Godhead  with  a  martyr's  z-eal, 

And  quit  their  office  for  their  error's  sake. 

Blind,  and  in  love  with  darkness  !   yet  even  these 

Worthy,  compar'd  with  sycophants,  who  knee 

Thy  name  adoring,  and  then  preach  thee  man  1 

So  fares  thy  church.     But  how  thy  church  may  fare 

The  world  takes  little  thought.  Who  will  may  preach. 

And  what  they  will.     All  pastors  are  alike 

To  wandering  sheep,  resolv'd  to  follow  none. 

Two  gods  divide  them  all — Pleasure  and  Gain, 

For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 

And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war 

With  conscience  and  with  thee.  Lust  in  their  hearts, 

And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earth 

To  prey  upon  each  other  ;  stubborn,  fierce. 

High-minded,  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 

Thy  prophets  speak  of  such,  and,  noting  down 

The  features  of  the  last  degenerate  times, 

Exhibit  every  lineament  of  these. 

Come  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 

Receive  yet  one  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 

Due  to  thy  last  and  most  effectual  work. 

Thy  word  fulfilPd,  the  conquest  of  a  worW  ! 


BOOK  VU         THE   WINTER  WALK   AT   NOON.  l'8f^ 

He  is  the  happy  man,  whose  life  even  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come  ; 
Who,  doom'd  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state, 
Is  pleas'd  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 
Would  make  his  fate   his  choice ;  whom   peace,   the 

fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faiths- 
Prepare  for  happiness  ;  bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 
The  world  overlooks  him  in  her  busy  search- 
Of  objects  more  illustrious  in  her  view  j 
And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 
Though  more  sublimely,  he  overlooks  the  world. 
She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not  ;. , 
He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  prov'd  them  vain. 
He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies  ;  and  such  he  deems 
Her  honours,  her  emoluments,  her  joys.^ 
Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss. 
Whose  power  is  such  that  whom  she  lifts  from  eartlt 
She  makes  familiar  with  a  heaven  unseen. 
And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  reveard. 
Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed, 
And  censurM  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird 
That  flutters  least,  is  longest  on  the  wing. 
Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  ralsM^ 
Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 
He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer — None. 
His  warfare  Is  within.     There  unfatigu'd 


190  THE   TASK.  BOOK  71, 

His  fervent  spirit  labours.     There  he  fights, 

And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o'er  himself, 

And  never  withering  wreaths,  compar'd  with  whick. 

The  laurels  that  a  Cxsar  reaps  are  weeds. 

perhaps  the  self-approving  haughty  world. 

That  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  sllkg 

Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or  if  she  see, 

Deems  him  a  cypher  in  the  works  of  God, 

Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 

Of  which  she  little  dreams.     Perhaps  she  owe» 

Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 

And  plenteous  harvest  to  the  prayer  he  makes. 

When,  Isaac  like,  the  solitary  saint 

Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  even-tide. 

And  think  on  her  who  thinks  not  for  herselfc 

Forgive  him,  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 

Of  little  worth,  an  idler  in  the  best. 

If,  author  of  no  mischief  and  some  good. 

He  seek  his  proper  happiness  by  means 

That  may  advance,  but  cannot  hinder,  thine. 

Nor,  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 

Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  mych  ease. 

Account  him  an  incumbrance  on  the  state. 

Receiving  benefits,  and  rendering  none. 

His  sphere  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 

Shine  with  his  fair  example,  and  though  small 

His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 

In  soothing  sorrow  and  in  qrenching  strife, 

In  aiding  helpless  indigence,  in  works 

Prom  which  at  least  a  jrratcful  few  derive 


BOOK  VI.         THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  I9I 

Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  world  of  woe, 
Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 
He  serves  his  country,  recompenses  well 
The  state,  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  viafe 
He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life 
Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted  place. 
The  man  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen. 
Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  public  praise ; 
But  he  may  boast  what  few  that  win  it  can— . 
That,  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill, 
At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 
Polite  refinement  offers  him  in  vain 
Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a  sensual  world 
Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well. 
The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  th'  offence. 
Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode 
Because  that  world  adopts  it.     If  it  bear 
The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense^ 
And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth. 
He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake. 
Can  wear  it  e'en  as  gracefully  as  she. 
She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye. 
He  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 
Not  soon  deceived  ;  aware  that  what  is  base 
No  polish  can  make  sterling  ;  and  that  vice. 
Though  well  perfum'd  and  elegantly  dress'd, 
Like  an  unburied  carcase  trick'd  with  flowers, 
Is  but  a  garnish'd  nuisance,  fitter  far 
For  cleanly  riddance  than  for  fair  attire. 
So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away, 


192  TH£   TilSK.  BOOK  VI. 

More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 
Renown'd  in  ancient  song  ;  not  vex'd  with  care 
Or  stain'd  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approved 
Of  God^and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 
So  glide  my  life  away  !   and  so  at  last. 
My  share  of  duties  .decently  fulfill*d, 
May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 
Its  destined  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke^ 
Dismiss  me,  weary,  to  a  safe  retreat 
Beneath  the  turf  that  I  have  often  trod. 
T.t  shall  not  grieve  me,  then,  that  once,  when  caU'd 
To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flowers  of  verse, 
I  play'd  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair, 
With  that  light  task  ;  .but  soon,  to  please  her  moi^, 
Whom  flowrers  alone  I  knew  would  little  please. 
Let  fall  th*  unfinished  wreath,  and  rov'd  for  fruit  ; 
RovM  far,  and  gather'd  much  :  some  harsh,  'tis  true, 
Pick'd  from  the  thorns  and  briers  of  reproof, 
But  wholesome,  well  digested  ;  grateful  some 
To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth  ; 
Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despis'd. 
But  all  is  in  his  hand  whose  praise  I  seek. 
In  vain  the  poet  sings,  and  the  world  hears. 
If  he  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 
Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chime 
And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre. 
To  charm  his  ear,  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart ; 
Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain. 
Whose  approbation — prosper  even  mik£« 


TIROCINIUM 


OR, 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 


VOL,  n.  R 


T"0  THE 

Rev^  JViUiam  Cawthorn  UnwWy 

RECTOR  OF  STOCK  IN   ESSEX, 

THE  TUTOR  OF  HIS  TWO  SONS, 

THE  FOLLOWING 

POEM, 

RECOMMENDING    PRIVATE    TUITION 

IN  PREFERENCE  TO 

AN  EDUCATION  AT  SCHOOL, 
iS  WSCRISED, 
BY   HIS  AFFECTIONATE  PRIENH^ 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 
OitfiYt  Nor.  6,  1784. 


TIEOCIMUM. 


I 


T  is  not  from  his  fornix  in  wliich  we  trace 
Strength  joined  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace  ; 
That  man,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  lives. 
That  form,  indeed,  th*  associate   of  a  mind. 
Vast  in  its  powers,  etherial  in  its  kind. 
That  form,  the  labour  of  almighty  skill, 
Fram'd  for  the  service  of  a  free-born  will. 
Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 
But  borrows  all  its  grandeur  from  the  souL 
Here  is  the    state,  the  splendour,  and  the  throne. 
An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 
For  her  the  memory  fills  her  ample  page 
With  truths  pour'd  down  from  every  distant  age  ; 
For  her  amasses  and  unbounded  store, 
The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  more  ; 
Though  laden,  not  incumbered  with  her  spoil ; 
Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil ; 
When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarg'd  ; 
Still  to  be  fed,  and  not  to  be  surcharged. 
For  her  the  fancy,  roving  unconfin'd. 
The  present  muse  of  every  pensive  miod. 


\96  TiRocrNIu^f» 

VVovks  magic  wonders,  adds  a  brighter  hue 
To  nature's  scenes  than  nature  ever  knew. 
At  her  command  winds  rise  and  waters  roar ; 
Again  she  lays  them  slumbering  on  the  shore  ; 
With  flower  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies, 
Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  arise. 
For  her  the  judgmeHt,  umpire  in  the  strife 
That  grace  and  nature  have  to  wage  through  life, 
Quick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  and  ill^ 
Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  will. 
Condemns,  approves,  and  with  a  faithful  voice 
Guides  the  decision  of  a  doubtful  choice. 

Why  did  the  fiat  of  a  God  give  birth 
To  yon  fair  sun  and  his  attendant  earth  ? 
A  nd,  when  descending  he  resigns  the  skies. 
Why  takes  the  gentler  moon  her  turn  to  rise, 
Whom  ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless  waves* 
And  owns  her  power  on  every  shore  he  laves  i 
Why  Jo  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year, 
Fruitful  and  young  as  in  their  first  career  ? 
Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees^ 
Rock'd  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze  ; 
Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receive* 
Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves. 
Till  autumn's  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Dye  them  at  last  in  all  their  glowing  hues. — ' 
Twere  wild  profusion  all,  and  bootless  waste. 
Power  misemployed,  munificence  misplaced, 
Had  not  its  Author  dignified  the  plan, 
Andcrown'd  k  with  the  majesty  of  imn^ 


TIROCINIUM.  197 

Thus  form'd,  thus  plac'd,  intelligent,  ^nd  taught, 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wondere  God  has  wrought^ 
The  wildest  scorner  of  his  Maker's  laws 
Finds  in  a  sober  moment  time  to  pause. 
To  press  th'  irpportant  question  on  his  heart, 
**  Why  form'd  at  all,  and  wherefore  as  thou  art  V 
If  man  be  what  he  seems — ^this  hour  a  slave, 
The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave  ; 
Endued  with  reason  only  to  desciy 
His  crimes  and  foUies  with  an  achi'ig  eye  ; 
With  passions  just  that  he  may  prove  with  pain. 
The  force  he  spends  against  their  fury  vain  ; 
And  if,  soon  after  having  burnt,  by  turns. 
With  every  lust  wi;h  which  frail  nature  burns. 
His  being  end  where  death  dissolves  the  bond. 
The  tomb  take  all,  and  all  be  blank  beyond — 
Then  he,  of  all  that  nature  has  brought  forth. 
Stands  self-impeach *d,  the  creature  of  least  worth. 
And  useless  while  he  lives,  and  when  he  dies, 
Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths  that  the  leam'd  pursue  with  eager  thought, 
Are  not  important  always  as  dear-bought, 
Proving  at  last,  though  told  in  pompous  strains, 
A  childish  waste  of  philosophic  pains  ; 
But  truths  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  misery  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  eveiy  path  we  tread. 
With  such  a  lustre,  he  that  runs  may  read, 
*Tis  true,  that,  if  tcHrifle  life  away 
Down  to  the  sun-set  of  their  latest  day, 
R  2 


lOS  TlilOCJl«IU^^• 

Then  perish  on  futurity's  wide  shore, 

Like  fleeting  exhalations,  found  no  more, 

Were  all  that  Heaven  required  of  human  kmd, 

And  ail  the  phn  their  destiny  designed, 

What  none  could  reverence,  all  might  justly  blame^ 

And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's  shame*- 

But  reason  heard,  and  nature  well  perus'd. 

At  once  the  dreaming  mind  is  disabused. 

If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air, 

Reflect  his  attribntes  who  placed  them  there^ 

Fulfilthe  purpose,  and  appear  designed 

Proofs  of  the  wisdom  of  th'  all-seeing  Mind, 

^Tis  plain  the  creature  whom  he  chose  t'invest 

With  kingship  and  dominion  o^er  the  rest, 

Received  his  nobler  nature,  and  was  made 

Fit  for  the  power  in  which  he  stands  array'd, 

That  first  or  last,  hereafter  if  not  here, 

He  too  might  make  his  Author's  wisdom  cl^ar, 

Praise  him  on  earth,  or,  obstinately  dumb, 

Suffer  his  justice  in  a  world  to  come. 

This  once  believ'd^  'twere  logic  misapplied 

To  prove  a  consequence  by  none  denied. 

That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds^of  youth 

Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heaveul}-  truth, 

That,  taught  of  God,  they  may  indeed  be  wise, 

Nor,  ignorantly  wandering,  miss  the  skies. 

In  early  days  the  conscience  has  in  most 
A  quickness,  which  in  later  hfe  is  lost  ; 
Preserved  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 
Qr,  guilty,  soon  relenting  into  tears*. 


TIROGIUIUM.  190 

Too  careless  often,  as  our  years  proceed. 

What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we  ready 

Our  parents  yet  exert  a  prudent  care 

To  feed  our  infant  minds  with  proper  fare  ; 

And  wisely  store  the  nursery  by  degrees 

With  wholesome  learning,  yet  acquired  with  ease. 

Neatly  securM  from  being  soil'd  or  tora 

Beneath  a  pane  of  thin  translucent  horn^ 

A  book  (to  please  us  at  a  tender  age 

*Tis  call'd  a  book,  though  but  a  single  page) 

Presents  the  prayer  the  Saviour  deign'd  to  teach, 

Which  children  use,  and  parsons — when  they  preach,. 

Lisping  our  syllables,,  we  scramble  next 

Through  moral  narrative,  or  sacred  text  ; 

And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began,. 

Who  made,  who  marr'd,  and  who  has  ransomed  man  i 

Points,  which,  unless  the  scripture  made  them  plain^ 

The  wisest  heads  might  agitate  in  vain. 

Oh  thou,  whom,  borne  on  fancy's  eager  wing 

Back  to  the  season  of  life's  happy  spring, 

I  pleas'd  remember,  and,  while  memory  yet 

Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne^er  forget  y 

Ingenious  dreamer,  :n  whose  well-told  tale 

Sweet  fiction  and"  sweet  truth  alike  prevail ;. 

Whose  humorous  vein,,  strong  sense,  and  simple  styfe. 

May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile  ; 

Witty,  and  well  employ'd,  and,  like  thy  Lord, 

Speaking  m  parables  his  slighted  word  ; 


200  'TllLOCINIUM, 

I  name  thee  not,  lest  so  despis'd  a  name 

Should  move  a  sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame  ; 

Yet  even  in  transitory  life's  late  day, 

That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  grey, 

Revere  the  man,  whose  pilgrim  marks  the  road, 

And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God. 

'Twere  well  with  most,  if  books,  that  could  engage 

Their  childhood,  pleas'd  them  at  a  riper  age  : 

The  man,  approving  what  had  charmed  the  boy^ 

Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace  and  joy  ; 

And  not  with  curses  on  his  heart,  who  stole 

The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  souL 

The  stamp  of  artless  piety,  impressed 

By  kind  tuition  on  his  yielding  breast^ 

The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw, 

Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  received  with  awe  ; 

And,  warp'd  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies, 

That  babblers,  called  philosophers,  devise. 

Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a  plan 

Replete  with  dreams,  unworthy  of  a  man. 

Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part, 

Assert  the  native  evil  of  his  heart. 

His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof* 

Rise  in  his  forehead,  and  seem  rank  enough  : 

Point  to  the  cure,  describe  a  Saviour's  cross 

As  God's  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss. 

The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view^ 

And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a  Jew. 


*  See  2  ChroD.  xxvi.  i^ 


TIROCINIUM,  201 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  nature  proves, 
Oppos'd  against  the  pleasures  nature  loves  ! 
While,  self-beti*ay'd,  and  wilfully  undone, 
She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  woo'd  than  won. 
Try  now  the  merits  of  this  blest  exchange 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit's  eccentric  range* 
Time   was,  he  clos'd,  as  he  began,  the  day 
With  decent  duty,  not  asham'd  to  pray  ; 
The  practice  was  a  bond  upon  his  heart, 
A  pledge  he  gave  for  a  consistent  part  ; 
Nor  could  he  dare  presumptuously  displease 
A  power  confessed  so  lately  on  his  knees. 
But  now  farewell  all  legendary  tales— 
The  shadows  fly,  philosophy  prevails  ! 
Prayer  to  the  winds,  and  caution  tc  the  waves  j 
Religion  makes  the  free  by  nature  slaves  ! 
Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admir'd 
What  knavish  priests  promulgate  as.  inspired  ; 
Till  reason,  now  no  longer  overaw'd. 
Resumes  her  powers,  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud;. 
And,  common-sense  diffusing  real  day, 
The  meteor  of  the  gospel  dies  away   ! 
Such  rhapsodies  our  shrewd  discerning  youth. 
Learn  from  expert  inquirers  after  truth  I 
Whose  only  care,  might  truth  presume  to  speak^ 
Is  not  to  find  what  they  profess  to  seek. 
And  thus,  well-tutor'd  only  while  we  share 
A  mother's  lectures  and  a  nurse's  care  ; 


20^  TIROCINIUM, 

And  taught  at  schools  much  mythologic  stuff,* 
But  sound  religion  sparingly  enough  j 
Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgrac'd. 
Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effac'd* 

Would  you  your  son  should  be  a  sot  or  dunce> 
Lascivious,  headstrong  ;  or  all  these  at  once  ; 
That  in  good  time,  the  stripling's  finished  taste 
For  loose  expense  and  fashionable  waste 
Should  prove  your  rum  and  his  own  at  last  ; 
Train  him  in  public  with  a  mob  of  boys, 
Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise, 
Else  of  a  mannish  growth,  and  five  in  tea 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness  men- 
There  shall  he  learn,  ere  sixteen  winters  old, 
That  authors  are  most  ufeful  pawn'd  or  sold  ;, 
That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart. 
But  taverns  teach  the  knowledge  of  the  heart  ; 
There  waiter  Dick,  with  Bacchanalian  lays. 
Shall  win  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praise. 
His  counsellor  and  bosom-friend  shall  prove, 
And  some  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 
Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong. 
Detain  their  adolescent  charge  too  long  j 


*  The  author  begs  leave  to  explain. — Sensible,  that  with- 
out such  knowledge,  neither  the  ancient  poels  nor  historians 
can  be  tasted,  or  indeed  uaderstood,  he  docs  not  mean  to  cen- 
sure the  pains  that  are  taken  to  instruct  a  school-boy  m  the  re- 
ligion of  the  heathen,  but  merely  that  neglect  of  Christian  cul- 
ture which  leaves  Iwm  shamefully  ignorant  of  his  own. 


TiROCtNItFM*  20S 

The  management  of  tyros  of  eighteen 

Is  difficult,  their  punishment  obscene. 

The  stout  tall  captain,  whose  superior  si^^ 

The  minor  heroes  view  with  envious  eyes. 

Becomes  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 

Their  whole  attention,  and  apeall  his  tricks. 

His  pride,  that  scorns  t'  obey  or  to  submit. 

With  them  is  courage  ;  his  effrontery  wit. 

His  wild- excursions,  window-breaking  feats, 

Robbery  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  tlie  streets. 

His  hair-breadth  'scapes,  and  all  his  daring  schemes. 

Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  favorite  themes. 

In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 

A  kindred  spark  ;  they  burn  to  do  the  like. 

Thus,  half  accomplished  ere  he  yet  begin 

To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin  ; 

And,  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on. 

Made  just  th*  adept  that  you  designed  your  son  5 

T'  ensure  the  perseverance  of  his  course. 

And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force. 

Send  him  to  college.     If  he  there  be  tam'd, 

Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaimed, 

Where  no  regard  of  ordinances  is  shown 

Or  look'd  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own. 

Some  sneaking  virfeue  lurks  in  him  no  doubt,  y 

Where    neither  strumpets'   charms,    nor  drinking-  L 

Nor  gambling  practices,  can  find  it  out.         £bout,  J 

Such  youths  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too. 

Ye  nurseries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you  ! 


204* 


TIROClNrUM. 


Though  from  oui-selves  the  mischief  more  proceeds. 
For  public  schools  'tis  pubHc  folly  feeds. 
The  slaves  of  custom  and  estabhsh'd  mode, 
With  pack-horse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 
Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dellsj 
True  to  the  jinghng  of  our  leader's  bells, 
To  follow  foohsh  precedents,  and  wink 
With  botli  our  eyes  is  easier  than  to  think i 
And  such  an  age  as  ours  baulks  no  expense, 
Except  of  caution  and  of  common  sense  ; 
Else,  sure,  notorious  fact  and  proof  so  plain 
W^ould  turn  our  steps  into  a  wiser  train. 
I  blame  not  those,  wIk),  with  what  care  they  can, 
O'erwatch  the  numerous  .and  unruly  clan  ; 
Or,  if  I  blame,  ^tisonly  that  they  dare 
Promise  a  work  of  which  they  must  despair. 
Have  ye,  ye  sage  intendants  of  the  whole, 
An  ubiquarian  presence  and  control— « 
Elisha's  eye,  that,  when  Geliazi  ^tray'^d, 
Went  with  him  and  saw  all  the  game  he  play'd? 
Yes-^ye  .are  conscious  ;  and  on  all  the  shelves 
Your  pupils  strike  upon,  have  struck  yourselves. 
Or,  if  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then. 
Boys  as  ye  were^  the  gravity  of  men ,; 
Ye  knew  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  address'd 
To  ears  and  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest. 
But  ye  conni\^  at  what  ye  cannot  cure. 
And  evils,  not  to  be  endur'd,  endure, 
"Lest  power  exerted,  but  without  success, 
Jhould  teakc  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 


TIHOCISIUM.  205 


1 


Ye  once  were  justly  fam'd  for  bringing  forth 

Undoubted  scholarship  and  genuine  worth  ; 

And  in  the  firmament  of  fame  still  shines 

A  glory,  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs, 

Of  poets  rais'd  by  you,  and  stasesmen,  and  divines. 

Peace  to  them  all  1   those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 

And  no  such  lights  are  kindling  in  their  stead. 

Our  striplings  shine,  indeed,  but  with  such  rays, 

As  set  the  midnight  riot  in  a  blaze  ; 

And  seem,  if  judg'd  by  their  expressive  looks, 

Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeon's  books. 

Say,  muse,  (for  education  made  the  song, 
No  muse  can  hesitate  or  linger  long ) 
What  causes  move  us,  knowing,  as  we  must, 
That  these  menagerhs  all  fail  their  trust, 
To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there. 
While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care  ? 
Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise  ; 
We  love  the  play-place  of  our  early  days— 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone 
That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 
The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill, 
The  very  name  we  carv'd  subsisting  still  ; 
The  bench  on  which  we  sat  while  deep  employed, 
Though    mangled,  hackM,  and  hew'd,  not    yet    de- 
The  little  ones,  unbutton'd,  glowing  hot,     [[stroy'd  : 
Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot  ; 
As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 
The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw;. 

VOL,  II.  s 


20()  TIROCINIUM. 

To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat, 

Or  drive  it  devious  with  a  dexterous  pat--* 

The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites 

Such  recollection  of  our  ovim  delights, 

That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  t'  obtain 

Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again, 

This  fond  attachment  to  the  wtII  known  place. 

Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race. 

Maintains  its  hold  with  such  unfailing  sway. 

We  feel  it  even  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 

Hark  !   how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 

Of  classic  food  begins  to  be  his  care, 

With  his  own  hkeness  placM  on  either  knee. 

Indulges  all  a  father's  heart-felt  glee  ; 

And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks, 

That  they  must  soon  learn  Latin,  and  to  box  ; 

Then,  turning,  he  regales  his  listening  wife 

With  all  th'  adventures  of  his  early  life  ; 

His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise, 

In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays  ; 

What  shifts  he  us'd,  detected  in  a  scrape. 

How  he  was  floggM,  or  had  the  luck  t'  escape  ; 

What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold 

Watch,  seals,  and  all-^till  all  his  pranks  are  tcld^ 

Retracing  thus  h\s  frolics  ('tis  a  name 

That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame) 

He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sway  ; 

P  "solves  that  where  he  play'd  his  sons  shall  play, 

>i  d  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  si:/ wn 
just  in  the  scene  where  he  displayed  hi^rown. 


i-mociNiuM.  207 

The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught 

To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought  ; 

The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  eiK)ugh, 

Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  the  rough. 

Ah,  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 

Th'  event  is  sure,  expect  it,  and  rejoice  ! 

Soon  see  your  wish  fultill'd  in  either  child — • 

The  pert  made  perter,  and  the  tame  made  wild* 

The  great,  indeed,  by  titles,  riches,  birth, 

ExcusM  th'  incumbrance  of  more  solid  worth. 

Are  best  disposed  of  where  with  most  success 

They  may  acquire  that  confident  address. 

Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense, 

That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense, 

Which,  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn, 

With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 

But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame, 

Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  apotless  name, 

Whose  heirs,  their  honours  none,  their  income  small, 

Must  shine  by  true  desert,  or  not  at  all — 

What  dream  they  of.  that  with  so  little  care 

They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure,  there  ? 

They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  grac'd 

With  wig  prolix,  down-flowing  to  his  waist  ; 

They  see  th'  attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw. 

They  hear  him  speak— the  oracle  of  law  ! 

The  father  who  designs  his  babe  a  priest, 

Dreams  him  episcopally  such  at  least  ; 

And,  while  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 

Briskly,  astride  upon  the  parlour  broom, 


20S 


TIROCINIUM. 


In  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 

In  coach  with  purple  linM,  and  mitres  on  its  side. 

Events  hnprobable  and  strange  as  these,  1 

Which  only  a  parental  eye  foresees,  > 

A  pubHc  school  shall  bring  to  pass  with  ease,  3 

But  how  ?  resides  such  virtue  in  that  air 

As  must  create  an  appetite  for  prayer  ? 

And  will  it  bi-eathe  into  him  all  the  -^eal 

That  candidates  for  such  a  prize  should  feel. 

To  take  the  lead,  and  be  the  foremost  still 

In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill  ? 

'*  Ah,  Wind  to  bright  futurity,  untaught 

*<  The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thougkt  t 

**  Church  ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best 

**  By  learned  clerks  and  Latinists  profess'd. 

**  Th'  exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 

•*  Not  to  be  found  by  poring  on  a  book. 

•*  Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek, 

^*  Is  more  than  adequate  to  all  I  seek. 

**  Let  erudition  grace  him  or  not  grace, 

**  I  give  the  bawble  but  the  second  place  ; 

**  His  wealth,  fame,  honours,  all  that  I  intend, 

**  Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a  friend  ! 

^  A  friend,  whate'er  he  studies  or  neglects, 

*  Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 

"  His  intercourse  with  peers,  and  sons  of  peers-^ 

^  There  dawns  the  splendour  of  his  future  years  ; 

**  In  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies 

**  Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  rise. 


-I 


TIROCINIUM.  209 

"  Tour  Lordships  and  -Tour  Grace  I    what  school  can 

teach 
**  A  rhetoric  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech  \ 
**  What  need  of  Homer's  verse  or  Tally's  prose, 
"  Sweet  interjections  !   if  he  learn  but  those  ? 
*•  Let  reverend  churls  his  ignorance  rebuke, 
**  Who  starve  upon  a  dog's-ear'd  Pentateuch, 
"  The  Parson  knows  enough  who  knows  a  duke,' 
Egregious  purpose  !  worthily  begun 
In  barbarous  prostitution  of  your  son  ; 
Pressed  on  his  part  by  means  that  would  disgrace 
A  scrivener's  clerk  or  footman  out  of  place. 
And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gain'd. 
In  sacrilege,  in  God's  own  house  profan'd  ! 
It  may  succeed  ;  and,  if  his  sins  should  call 
For  more  than  common  punishment,  it  shall  ; 
The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  be  the  thing  on  earth 
Least  qualified  in  honour,  learning,  worth, 
To  occupy  a  sacred,  awful  post, 
In  which  the  best  and  worthiest  tremble  most. 
The  royal  letters  are  a  thing  of  course — 
A  king,  that  would,  might  recommend  his  horse  ;  * 
And  deans,  no  doubt,  and  chapters  with  one  voice, 
As  bound  in  duty,  would  confirm  the  choice. 
Behold  your  bishop  !   well  he  plays  his  pait — 
Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart, 
Ghostly  in  office,  earthly  in  his  plan, 
A  slave  at  court,  elsewhere  a  lady's  man  ! 
Dumb  as  a  senator,  and,  as  a  priest, 
A  piece  of  mere  church- furniture  at  best  ; 
s  2 


210  TIROCINIUM. 

To  live  estranged  from  God  his  total  scope. 

And  his  end  sure  without  one  glimpse  of  hope  \ 

But,  fair  although,  and  feasible  it  seem, 

Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream  ; 

For  Providence,  that  seems  concern'd  t'  exempt 

Tlie  hallow'd  bench  from  absolute  contempt, 

In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place, 

Still  keeps  a  seat  or  two  for  worth  and  grace  j 

And  therefore  'tis,  that,  though  the  sight  be  rare. 

We  sometimes  see  a  Lowth  or  Bagot  there. 

Besides,  school-friendships  are  not  always  found, 

Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound  ; 

The  most  disinterested  and  virtuous  minds. 

In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds  ; 

New  situations  give   a  different  cast 

Of  habit,  inclination,  temper,  taste  ; 

And  he,  that  seemM  our  counterpart  at  first, 

Soon  shows  the  strong  similitude  reversM, 

Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warna, 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform. 

Boys  are  at  best  but  pretty  buds  unblown. 

Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guess'dthan  knows  5 

Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears, 

But  learns  his  error  in  maturer  years. 

When  disposition,  like  a  sail  unfurPd, 

Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world. 

If  therefore,  even  when  honest  in  design, 

A  boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 

'Twere  wiser,  sure,  t'  inspire  a  little  heart 

With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a  part, 


tir:ocinium.  gfi 

Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a  vile  trade 
For  wages  so  unlikely  to  be  paid. 

Our  public  hives  of  puerile  resort, 
That  are  of  chief  and  most  approved  report. 
To  such  base  hopes,  in  many  a  sordid  soul. 
Owe  their  repute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole. 
A  principle,  whose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestion'd,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass-— 
That  with  a  world,  not  often  over-nice. 
Ranks  as  a  virtue,  and  is  yet  a  vice  ; 
Or  rather  a  gross  compound,  justly  tried. 
Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  pride- 
Contributes  most  perhaps  t'  enhance  their  fame  ; 
And  EMULATION  in  its  specious  name. 
Boys,  once  on  Sre  with  that  contentious  zeal. 
Feel  all  the  rage  that  female  rivals  feel  ; 
The  prize  of  beauty  in  a  woman's  eyes 
Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  "scholar's  prize. 
The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 
With  all  varieties  of  ill  by  turns  ; 
Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 
Resents  his  fellow's,  wishes  it  were  less, 
Exults  in  his  miscarriage  if  he  fail, 
Deems  his  reward  too  great  if  he  prevail, 
And  labours  to  surpass  him  day  and  night. 
Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 
The  spur  is  powerful,  and  I  grant  its  force  ; 
It  pricks  the  genius  forward  in  its  course, 
Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth  ; 
And,  felt  alike  by  each,  advances  both^ 


212  TIROCINIUM. 

But  judge,  where  so  much   evil  intenrenes. 
The  end,  though  plausible,  not  v/orth  the  means. 
Weigh,  for  a  moment,  classical  desert 
Against  a  heart  deprav*d  and  temper  hurt  ; 
Hurt,  too,  perhaps  for  life  ;  for  early  wrong, 
Done  to  the  nobler  part,  affects  it  long  ; 
And  you  are  staunch  indeed  in  learning's  cause, 
If  you  can  crown  a  discipHne  that  draws 
Such  mischiefs  after  it  with  much  applause. 

Connexion  form'd  for  interest,  and  endeared 
By  selfish  views,  thus  censured  and  cashiered  ; 
And  emulation,  as  engendering  hate, 
Doom'd  to  a  no  less  ignominious  fate  ; 
The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  fall. 
The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  of  them  all. 
Great  schools  rejected,  then,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a  size  that  can  be  managed  well, 
Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 
And  small  academies  win  all  the  praise  ? 
Force  not  my  drift  beyond  its  just  intent, 
I  praise  a  school  as  Pope  a  government  5 
So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dress'd— 
•^  Whate'er  is  best  administer'd  is  best.'* 
Few  boys  ar^e  born  with  talents  that  excel. 
But  all  are  capable  of  living  well ; 
Then  ask  not.  Whether  limited  or  large  ? 
But,  Watch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge  ? 
If  anxious  only  that  their  boys  may  karn^ 
While  morals  languish,  a  despis'd  concern^ 


! 


TtROGlNIVM.  gig 

The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blame, 
Different  in  size  but  in  effect  the  same. 
Much  zeal  in  virtue's  cause  all  teachers  boast, 
Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  &vvay  the  most  ; 
Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound, 
For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found  ; 
Though  there,  in  spite  of  all  that  care  can  do. 
Traps  to  catch  youth  are  most  abundant  too. 
If  shrewd,  and  of  a  well-constructed  brain ^ 
Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vigorous  to  retain^ 
Your  son  come  forth  a  prodigy  of  skill  ; 
As,  wheresoever  taught,  so  formed,  he  will  ; 
The  pedagogue,  with  self-complacent  air, 
Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share* 
But,  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray. 
Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay. 
Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name. 
Threaten  his  health,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame  ; 
Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 
The  symptoms  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread ^ 
Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone 
The  whole  reproach— the  fault  was  all  his  own ! 

Oh  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perus'd. 
By  whom  all  sentiment  has  not  abus'd  ; 
New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  grace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place  ; 
A  sight  surpass'd  by  none  that  we  can  show 
Though  Vestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  below  ; 
A  father  blest  with  an  ingenuous  son-— 
Father,  and  friend,  and  tutor,  all  in  one. 


ut. 


TIROCINIUM. 


How  !— turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot, 

-/Esop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest  ? — Why  not  ? 

He  will  not  blush,  that  has  a  father's  heart, 

To  take  in  childish  plays  a  childish  part  : 

But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy 

That  youth  takes  pleasure  in,  to  please  his  boy  : 

Then  why  resign  into  a  stranger's  hand 

A  task  as  much  within  your  own  command, 

That  God  and  nature,  and  your  interest  too, 

Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  you  ? 

Why  hire  a  lodging  in  a  house  unknown 

For  one  whose  tenderest  thoughts  all  hover  round  your 

own  ? 
Tills  second  weaning,  needless  as  it  is, 
How  does  it  lacerate  both  your  heart  and  hisi 
Th'  indented  stick,  that  loses  day  by  day 
Notch  after  notch,  till  all  are  smoothed  away, 
Bears  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come, 
With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 
But,  though  the  joys  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 
Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof, 
Harmless,  and  safe,  and  natural,  as  they  are, 
A  disappointment  waits  him  even  there  : 
Arriv'd,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change  ; 
He  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy  and  strange. 
No  longer  takes,  as  once  with  fearless  ease, 
His  favorite  stand  between  his  father's  knees, 
But  seeks  the  corner  of  some  distant  seat. 
And  eyes  the  door,  and  watches  a  retreat, 
And,  least  familiar  where  he  should  be  most, 
Feels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost* 


TIROCINIUM.  215 

Alas,  poor  boy  ! — the  natural  effect 

Of  love  by  absence  chilPd  into  respect. 

Say,  what  accomplishments,  at  school  acquired, 

Brings  he,  to  sweeten  fruits  so  undesir'd  i 

Thou  well  deserv'st  an  alienated  son. 

Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge — none  ; 

None  that,  in  thy  domestic  snug  recess, 

He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  address. 

Though  some  perhaps  that  shock  thy  feeling  mind, 

And  better  never  learn'd,  or  left  behind. 

Add  too,  that  thus  estrang'd,  thou  canst  obtain 

By  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  again  ; 

That  here  begins  with  most  that  long  complaint, 

Of  filial  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint, 

Which,  oft  neglected,  in  lifers  waning  yeajTS 

A  parent  pours  into    regardless  ears. 

Like  caterpillars,  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  in  which  are  bred  th'  unseemly  race ; 
While  every  worm  industriously  weaves 
And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivelPd  leaves  ; 
80  numerous  are  the  follies  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  every  sprightly  boy  ; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse. 
Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse. 
Th'  encroaching  nuisance  asks  a  faithful  hand, 
Patient,  affectionate,  of  high  command. 
To  check  the  procreation  of  a  breed 
Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed. 


^sm 


TIROCINIUM. 


'Tis  not  enough  that  Greek  or  Roman  page. 

At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage  ; 

Even  'in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend, 

To  warn,  and  teach  him  safely  to  unbend. 

O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 

Watch  his  emotions,  and  control  their  tide  ; 

And,  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 

A  tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 

T*  impress  a  value,  not  to  be  eras'd, 

On   moments    squander'd   else,   and    running   all  to 

waste. 
And  seems  it  nothing  in  a  father's  eye, 
That,  unimprov'd,  those  many  moments  fly  ? 
And  is  he  well  content  his  son  should  find 
No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind 
But  conjugated  verbs  and  nouns  declinM  ? 
For  such  is  all  the  mental  food  purveyed 
By  pubUc  hacknies  in  the  schooling  trade  ; 
Who  feed  a  pupil's  intellect  with  store 
Of  syntax,  truly,  but  with  little  more  ; 
Dismiss  their  cares  when  they  dismiss  their  flock — 
Machines  themselves,  and  govern'd  by  a  clock. 
Perhaps  a  father,  blest  with  any  brains. 
Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 
T'  improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense, 
With  savory  truth,  and  wholesome  common  sense  ; 
To  lead  his  son,  for  prospects  of  delight, 
To  some  not  steep,  though  philosophic,  height, 
Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wondering  eyes 
YoD  circling  worlds,  their  distance,  and  their  size. 


■  J 


TlR^CiNiUM.  21-7 

The  moons  of  Jove,  and  Saturn's  belted  ball, 

And  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all  ; 

To  show  him,  in  an  insect  or  a  flower, 

Such  microscopic  proof  of  skill  and  power. 

As,  hid  from  ages  past,  God  now  displays 

To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days  ; 

To  spread  the  earth  before  him,  and  commend^ 

With  designation  of  the  finger's  end, 

its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note. 

Thus  bringing  home  to  him  the  most  remote  ; 

To  teach  his  heart  to  glow  with  generous  flame, 

Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame  ; 

And,  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 

To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view, 

Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 

A  wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 

Such  knowledge,  gained  betimes,  and  which  appears, 

Though  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years, 

Sweet  in  itself,  and  not  forbidding  sport. 

When  htralth  demands  it,  of  athletic  sort, 

Would  make  him — what  some  lovely  boys  have  been, 

And  more  than  one,  perhaps,  that  I  have  seen — 

An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 

Of  the  mere  scliool^boy's  lean  and  tardy  growth.. 

Art  thou  a  man  professionally  tied, 
With  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied^ 
Too  busy  to  intend  a  meaner  care. 
Than  how  t*  enrich  thyself,  and  next  thine  heir  ? 
Or  art  thou  (as,  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art) 
But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  t'  impart  ^— 

VOL.   II.  T 


218 


TIROCINIUM, 


Behold  that  figure,  neat,  though  plainly  clad  ; 

His  sprightly  mingled  with  a  shade  of  sad  ; 

Not  of  a  nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 

Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men  ; 

No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse, 

His  phrase  well  chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force  ; 

And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease. 

Not  English  stiff,  but  frank,  and  formM  to  please  ; 

Low  in  the  world,  because  he  scorns  its  arts ; 

A  man  of  letters,  manners,  morals,  parts  ; 

Unpatroniz'd,  and  therefore  little  known ; 

Wise  for  himself  and  h:s  few  friends  along?— 

In  him  thy  well-appointed  proxy  see, 

Arm'd  for  a  work  too  difficult  for  thee  $ 

Prepar'd  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth. 

To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth  ; 

Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thine  eye,  to  prove 

The  force  of  dicipline  when  back'd  by  love  ; 

To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 

His  mind  informed,  his  morals  undefil'd. 

Safe  under  such  a  wing,  the  boy  shall  show 

No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below. 

Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses,  designed 

By  footman  Tom  for  witty  and  refined. 

There,  in  his  commerce  with  the  liv'ried  herd, 

Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  fear'd  j 

For,  since  (so  fashion  dictates  )  all,  who  claim 

A  highei  than  a  mere  plebeian  fame, 

Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may^ 

To  entertain  a  thief  or  two  in  pay. 


TIROCINIUM.  219 

(And  they  that  can  aftord  th'  expense  of  more, 

♦Some  half  a  dozen,  and  some  half  a  score) 

Great  cause  occurs  to  save  hLn  from  a  band 

So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand  j 

A  point  secur'd,  if  once  he  be  supplied 

With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 

Are  such  men  rare  ?  perhaps  they  would  abound 

Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found. 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a  manageable  scale, 

And  schools,   that  have  outliv'd  all  just  esteem. 

Exchanged  for  the  secure  domestic  scheme.— 

But,  having  found  him,  be  thou  duke  or  earl, 

Sho\T  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl. 

And,  as  thou  vvould'st  th'  advancement  of  thine  heir 

In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care, 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just, 

A  man  deem'd  worthy  of  so  dear  a  trust. 

Despis'd  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 

From  youthful  folly  than  the  same  neglect  ? 

A  flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains. 

That  instant,  upon  all  his  future  pains  ; 

His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend. 

And  all  th'  instructions  of  thy  son's  best  friend 

Are  a  stream  chok'd,  or  trickhng  to  no  end. 

Doom  him  not  then  to  solitary  meals  ) 

But  recollect  that  he  has  sense,  and  feeli  j 

And  that,  possessor  of  a  soul  refin'd. 

An  upright  heart,  and  cultivated  mind. 


i 


236  TiRociNrtJM. 

His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown^ 
He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone. 
And,  if  admitted  at  thy  board  he  sit, 
Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit ; 
Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 
From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains  ; 
Much  less  transfix  his  feelings  with  an  oath  ; 
Nor  frown,  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth. — 
And,  trust  me,  his  utility  may  reach 
To  more  than  he  is  hir'd  or  bound  to  teach  ; 
Much  trash  unutter*d,  and  some  ills  undone. 
Through  leverence  of  the  Censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean, 
Foul  with  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene, 
And  thou  a  wretch,  whom,  following  h^r  old  plan^ 
The  world  accounts  an  honourable  man, 
Because  forsooth  thy  courage  has  been  tried 
And  stood  the  test,  perhaps  on  the  wrong  side  ; 
Though  thou  hadst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 
That  any  thing  but  vice  could  win  thy  love  ; — - 
Or  hast  thou  a  polite,  card-playing  wife, 
Chain'd  to  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life  j 
Who  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore, 
Tlies,  wing'd  with  joy,  to  some  coach^crowded  door  ij 
And  thrice  in  every  winter  throngs  thine  own 
With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  in  town, 
Thyself  meanwhile  e'en  shifting  as  thou  may'st ; 
Not  very  sober  though,  not  very  chaste  ; 
Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank. 
If  not  a  scene  of  pleasure,  a  mere  blank, 


TIC^OCIMIUM*  2Sth 

And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  soberest  mood, 
A  trifler  vain,  and  empty  of  all  good  ; 
Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none. 
Hear  nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son. 
Sav'd  from  his  home,  where  every  day  brings  forth 
Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  woith, 
Find  him  a  better  in  a  distant  spot. 
Within  some  pious  pastor's  humble  cot, 
Where  vile  example  (yours  I  chiefly  mean, 
The  most  seducing  and  the  oftenest  seen) 
May  never  more  be  stamp  *d  upon  his  breast, 
Nor  yet  perhaps  incurably  impress'd  : 
Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure. 
Disease  or  comes  not,  or  finds  easy  cure, 
Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain]; 
Or,if  it  enter,  soon  starved  out  again  :  — 
Where  all  th'  attention  of  his  faithful  host. 
Discreetly  limited  at  two  at  most, 
May  raise  such  fruits  as  shall  reward  his  care,. 
And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air  :— i 
Where  stillness  aiding  study,  and  his  mind 
Serene,  and  to  his  duties  much  inclined. 
Not  occupied  in  day-dreams,  as  at  home, 
Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come, 
His  virtuous  toil  may  terminate  at  last 
In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste. — 
But  whom  do  I  advise  ?  the  fashion-led, 
Th'  incorrigibly  wrong,  the  deaf,  the  dead  i 
Whom  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 
Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a  brute  ; 
t2 


TIR0C1R1VW. 

Who,  if  their  sons  some  slight  tuition  sharr, 

Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  wliere  ; 

Too  proud  t'  adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unkuowiv. 

And  much  too  gay  t*  have  any  of  their  own. 

But  courage,  man  I  methought  the  muse  replied. 

Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide : 

The  ostrich,  silliest  of  the  feathered  kind, 

And  formed  of  God  without  a  parent's  mind. 

Commits  her  eggs,  incautious  to  the  dust. 

Forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust  ; 

And,  while  on  pubHc  nurs'ries  they  rely, 

Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why. 

Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer. 

No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  resemble  her. 

But  all  are  not  alike.     Thy  warning  voice 

May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  choice  ; 

And  some,  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are, 

Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care, 

(Whose  hearts  will  ache,  once  told  what  ilia  may 

reach 
Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a  beach) 
Will  need  no  stress  of  argument  t'  enforce 
Th'  expedience  of  a  less  adventurous  course  : 
The  rest  will  slight  thy  council,  or  condemn  j 
But  they  have  human  feelings— turn  to  them. 

To  you,  then,  tenants  of  life's  middle  state. 
Securely  plac'd  between  the  small  and  great, 
Whose  character,  yet  undebauch'd,  retains 
Two  thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains. 


TiaociMiUM.  22$ 

Who,  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  sons  should  learH 
Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  I  turn. 
Look  round  you  on  a  world  perversely  blind  ; 
See-^vhat  contempt  is  fall'a  on  human  kind  ; 
See  wealth  abusM,  and  dignities  misplac'd. 
Great  titles,  offices,  and  trusts  disgracM, 
Long  lines  of  ancestry,  renown*d  of  old, 
Their  noble  qualities  all  quench'd  and  cold ; 
See  Bedlam's  closetted  and  hand-cufF'd  charge 
Surpass'd  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large  ; 
See  great  commanders  making  war  a  trade, 
Great  lawyers,  lawyers  without  study  made  j 
Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  blest  employ 
Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy. 
Who,  far  enough  from  furnishing  their  shelves^ 
With  gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves ; 
See  womanhood  despis'd,  and  manhood  sham'd 
With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  namM, 
Fops  at  all  corners,  lady-hke  in  mien, 
Civeted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen, 
Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tongue 
On  fire  with  curses,  and  with  nonsense  hung. 

Now   flushM  with  drunkenness,  now  with  whoredom 

pale, 
Their  breath  a  sample  of  last  night's  regale  ; 
See  volunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts. 
Men  well  endowed  of  honourable  parts, 
Design 'd  by  nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools  ;— 
All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at  schools  I 


SSt  TIHOCINIlfM. 

And,  if  It  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will. 
That,  though  school-bred,  the  boy  be  virtuous  still  ^ 
Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark. 
Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark  : 
As  here  and  there  a  twinkhng  star  descried. 
Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside* 
Now  look  on  him,  whose  very  voice  in  tone 
Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  o\\^. 
And  stroke  his  polishM  cheek  of  purest  red. 
And  lay  thine  hand  upon  his  flaxen  heady 
And  say — my  boy,  th*  unwelcome  hour  is  come. 
When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home. 
Must  find  a  colder  soil  and  bleaker  air. 
And  trust  for  safety  to  a  stranger's  care  ; 
What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 
From  constant  converse  with  I  know  not  whom  ; 
Who  there  will  court  thy  friendship,  with  what  viewe^ 
And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose  ; 
Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be> 
Is  all  chance-medley,   and  unknown  to  mr.— 
Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling  on  thy  lids,   . 
And  while  the  dreadful  risk  foreseen  forbids  j 
Free,  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force. 
Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course  ; 
Lay  such  a  stake  upon  the  losing  side, 
Merely  to  gratify  so  blind  a  guide  ? 
Thou  canst  not  I   Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart, 
Condemns  th'  unfatherly,  th'  impiaident  part. 
Thou  would^st  not,  deaf  to  nature's  tenderest  plea, 
Turn  him  adrift  upon  a  rolling  sea, 


TIKOCINIUI^,  ^S^. 

Nor  say,  Go  ihUher^  conscious  that  there  lay 

A  brood  of  asps,  or  quicksands  in  his  way  ; 

Then,  only  govern'd  by  the  self-same  rule 

Of  natural  pity,  send  him  not  to  school. 

J«fo — ^guard  him  better.     Is  he  not  thine  own, 

Tayself  in  miniature,  thy  flesh,  thy  bone  ? 

And  hop'st  thou  not  ('tis  every  father's  hope) 

That,  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope^ 

And  thou  wilt  need  some  comfort  to  assuage 

Health's  last  farewel,  a  staff  of  thine  old  age, 

That  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares, 

Thy  child  shall  show  respect  to  thy  grey  hairs^ 

Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 

And  give  thy  life  its  only  cordial  left  I 

Aware  then  how  much  danger  intervenes. 

To  compass  that  good  end,,  forecast  the  means^^ 

His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command  \ — - 

Secure  it  thine,  its  key  is  in  thine  hand. 

If  thou  desert  thy  charge,  and  throw  it  wide, 

Nor  heed  what  guests  there  enter  and  abide,. 

Complain  not  if  attachments  lewd  and  base 

Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place. 

But,  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 

From  vicious  inmates  and  delights  impure, 

Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast. 

And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last ; 

Or,  if  he  prove  unkind  (as  who  can  sBy, 

But  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may  ?) 

One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart-— 

Howe'er  he  slight  thee,  thou  hast  done  thy  part. 


226  TIROCINIUM. 

Oh  barbarous  !  would^st  thou  with  a  Gothic  hani 
Pull  down  the  schools — what  !— all  the  schools  i'  th' 

land  ; 
Or  throw  them  up  to  livery-nags  and  grooms, 
Or  turn  them  into  shops  and   auction  rooms  ? 
A  captious  question,  Sir,  (and  yours  is  one) 
Deserves  an  answer  similar,  or  none. 
Would'st  thou,  possessor  of  a  flock,  employ 
( ApprizM  that  he  is  such) a  careless  boy. 
And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome  pay, 
Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  them  run  astray  ? 
Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 
A  sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile. 
From  education,  as  the  leading  cause, 
The  public  character  its  colour  draws  : 
Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast^ 
Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 
And,  though  I  would  not  advertise  them  yet^ 
Nor  write  on  each — This  Building  to  be  Lety 
Unless  the  world  were  all  prepared  t'  embrace 
A  plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place  : 
Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  beea^ 
To  cultivate  and  keep  the  morals   clean, 
(Forgive  the  crime)  I  wish  them,  I  confesa-. 
Or  better  manag'd,  or  encourag'd  less. 


THE  DOVES. 


I. 

REASONING  at  every  step  he  tread«, 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way, 
While  meaner  things  whom  instinct  leads, 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray, 
II. 
One  silent  ere  I  wander 'd  late. 

And  heard  the  voice  of  love  ; 
The  turtle  thus  addressM  her  mate, 

And  sooth'd  the  listening  dove— 
III. 
Our  mutual  bond  of  faith  and  truth, 

No  time  shall  disengage  ; 
Those  blessings  of  our  early  youth 

Shall  cheer  our  latest  5ige  ; 

IV. 

While  innocence  without  disguise, 

And  constancy  sincere, 
Shall  fill  the  circles  of  those  eyes, 

And  mine  can  read  them  there  ; 

V. 

Those  ills  that  wait  on  all  below 

Shall  ne'er  be  felt  by  me^ 
Or,  gently  felt,  and  only  so, 

A%  teing  iharM  with  thee. 


228.  A   TABLE, 

TI. 

When  liglitnings  flash  among  the  trees. 
Or  kites  are  hovering  near, 

1  fear  lest  thee  alone  they  seize, 
And  know  no  other  fear. 

VII. 

^Tis  then  I  feel  myself  a  wife. 

And  press  thy  wedded  side, 
Resolv'd  an  union  form'd  for  life 

Death  never  shall  divide. 
Till. 
But  oh  !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 

(  Forgive  a  tmnsient  thought ) 
Thou  could  become  unkind  at  last. 

And  scorn  thy  present  lot ; 

IX. 

No  need  of  lightnings  from  on  high, 

Or  kites  with  cruel  beak  ; 
Denied  th'  endearments  of  thine  eye. 

This  widow'd  heart  would  break. 

X. 

Thus  sang  the  sweet  sequester'd  bird 

Soft  as  the  passing  wind, 
And  I  recorded  what  I  heard — 

A  lesson  for  mankind. 


A  FABLE. 

A  RAVEN,  while  with  glossy  breast 
Her  new-laid  eggs  ^he  fondly  prcss'd, 


i 


! 


An3  on  her  wicker-work  high  mounted, 
She  chickens  prematurely  counted, 
(A  fault  philosophers  might  blame, 
If  quite  exempted  from  the  same) 
Enjoy 'd  at  ease  the  genial  day, 
'Twas  April,  as  the  bumpkins  say^ 
The  legislature  call'd  it  May. 
But  suddenly  a  wind  as  high 
As  ever  swept  a  winter  sky 
Shook  the  young  leaves  about  her  ears, 
And  fiU'd  her  with  a  thousand  fears, 
Lest  the  rude  blast  should  snap  the  bough. 
And  spread  her  golden  hopes  below. 
But,  just  at  eve,  the  blowing  weather. 
And  all  her  fears  were  hush'd  together  : 
And  now,  quoth  poor  unthinking  Ralph, 
'Tis  over,  and  the  brood  is  safe  ; 
(  For  Ravens,  though,  as  birds  of  omen. 
They  teach  both  conjurers  and  old  women 
To  tell  us  what  is  to  befall. 
Can't  prophesy  themselves  at  all.) 
The  morning  came,  when  neighbour  Hodg», 
Who  long  had  mark'd  her  airy  lodge, 
And  destin'd  all  the  treasure  there 
A  gift  to  his  expecting  fair, 
Climb'd  like  a  squirrel  to  his  dray. 
And  bore  the  worthless  prize  away, 

MOHAL. 

^Tis  Providence  alone  secures. 

In  every  change,  both  mine  and  yours  J 

VOL,  II.  U 


230  A    COMPARISON. 

Safety  consists  not  in  escape 
From  dangers  of  a  frightful  shape  ; 
An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 
The  man  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 
Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread. 
Found  oftenest  in  what  least  we  dread> 
Frowns  in  the  storm  with  angry  brow. 
But  in  the  sun-shine  strikes  the  blow. 


A  COMPARISON. 

THE  lapse  of  time  and  rivers  is  the  same  ; 
Both  speed  their  journey  with  a  restless  stream  $ 
The  silent  pace  with  w^hich  they  steal  away 
No  wealth  can  bribe,  no  prayers  persuade  to  stay  ; 
Alike  irrevocable  both  when  past, 
And  a  wide  ocean  swallows  both  at  last. 
Though  each  resemble  each  in  every  part, 
A  difference  strikes  at  length  the  musing  heart  ; 
Streams  never  flow  in  vain  ;  where  streams  abound. 
How  laughs  the  land  with  various  plenty  crown'd  ! 
But  time,  that  should  enrich  the  nobler  mind, 
Neglected,  leaves  a  dreary  w^aste  behind. 


ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED    TO    A    YOUNG    LADY.. 

SWEET  stream  that  v^inds  through  yonder  glade, 
Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid-— 


YIRSES    BY    ALEXANDER    SSLKIR.IC.  ^31 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 
Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng, 
With  gentle,  yet  prevailing  force, 
Intent  upon  her  destin'd  course  5 
Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 
Blessing  and  bless*d  where'er  she  goes, 
Pure-bosom*d  as  that  watery  glass, 
And  heaven  reflected  in  her  face* 


VERSES 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  ALEXANDER  SBLXIR«y 

DURING   HIS   SOLITARY  ABODE  IN   THB 

ISLAND  OF  JUAN   FERNANDEZ. 

I* 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute  ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 

I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 
Oh,  solitude !  where  are  the  charms 

That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 
Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 

Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 
II. 
I  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech  5 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts,  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indiilerence  see  j 


292  VERSBS   BY  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK. 

They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  lameness  is  shocking  to  me. 
iti. 
Society,  friendship,  and  love, 

Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove. 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  t 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  ways  of  rehgion  and  truth. 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  checr'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

IV. 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  I 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valhes  and  rocks  never  heard, 
Ne'er  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell,. 

Or  smil'd  when  a  sabbath  appeared. 

V. 

Ye  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me  1  yet  have  a  friend. 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see.^ 


ON  £.  THURLOW,ES$.  2^5 

.VI. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift  winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there  ; 
But  alas  !   recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

VII. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair, 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place  ; 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


ON   THE 

PROMOTION 

OF    EDWARD    THURLOW    ESQ. 
TO  THE    LORD  HIGH  CHANCELLORSHIP  OF  ENGLAND. 

I. 

ROUND  Thurlow's  head,  in  early  youth. 

And  in  his  sportive  days. 
Fair  science  pour'd  the  light  of  truth, 

And  genius  shed  his  rays, 
u   2 


2S4!  «BE  TO  PEACE. 

II. 

See  !  with  united  wonder,  cried 

Th*  experienced  and  the  sage> 
Ambition  in  a  boy  supplied 

With  all  the  skill  of  age  I 
III. 
Discernment,  eloquence,  and  graccr 

Proclaim  him  born  to  sway 
The  balance  in  the  highest  place. 

And  bear  the  palm  away. 

IV, 

The  praise  bestowM  was  just  and  wise  5 
He  sprang  impetuous  forth, 

Secure  of  conquest  where  the  prize 
Attends  superior  worth, 

V. 

So  the  best  courser  on  the  plain 
Ere  yet  he  starts  is  known, 

And  does  but  at  the  goal  obtain 
What  all  had  deem'd  his^own. 


ODE  TO  PEACE, 

I. 

COME,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest, 
Return  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart  ! 
Nor  riches  I,  nor  power  pursue, 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view; 

We  therefore  need  not  part. 


HUMAN   F&AlIrTY. 

Where  wlit  thou  dwell,  if  not  with  mc» 
From  avarice'atid  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles  ? 
For  whom,  alas !   dost  thou  prepare 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  share, 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  i 
111. 
The  great,  the  gay,  shall  they  partake 
The  heaven  that  thou  alone  canst  maie? 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy  mead. 
The  grove  and  the  sequester'd  shade, 

To  be  a  guest  with  them  ? 

IV. 

For  thee  I  panted,  thee  I  priz'd. 
For  thee  I  gladly  sacrificed 

Whatever  I  lov'd  before  ; 
And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away. 
And,  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  say— 

Farewel  !  we  meet  no  more  ? 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 

I. 

WEAK  and  irresolute  is  man  5 

The  purpose  of  to-day. 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan. 

To-morrow  rends  away. 


536  THE  MODERN   PATRIOT. 

11. 

The  bow^  well  bent,  and  smart  t^e  spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain  ; 
But  passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 

And  it  revives  again, 
in. 
Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part  i 
Virtue  engages  his  assent. 

But  pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

IV, 

'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise 
Through  all  his  art  we  view  ; 

And,  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies^ 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

V. 

Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length 

And  dangers  little  known, 
A  stranger  to  superior  strength> 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

VI, 

But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail 

To  leach  the  distant  coast, 
The  breath  of  heaven  must  awell  the  sail. 

Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 


THE  MODERN  PATRIOT. 

I. 

REBELLION  is  my  theme  all  day  ; 
I   only  wish    'twould  come 


THE  MODERN   PATRIOT. 

(As  who  knows  but  perhaps  k  may  ?) 

A  little  nearer  home. 
II. 
Yon  roaring  boys,  who  rave  and  fight 

On  t'  other  side  th'  Atlantic, 
I  always  held  them  in  the  right, 

But  most  so  when  most  frantic.^ 
III. 
When  lawless  mobs  insult  the  court, 

That  man  shall  be  my  toast, 
If  breaking  windows  be  the  sport, 

Who  bravely  breaks  the  most. 

But,  oh  ]   for  him  my  fancy  culls 
The  choicest  flowers  she  bears,. 

Who  constitutionally  pulls 
Your  house  about  your  ears.. 

V. 

Such  civil  broils  are  my  delight  ; 

Though  some  folks  can't  endure  'em^ 
Who  say  the  mob  are  mad  outright, 

And  that  a  rope  must  cure  'em. 

VI. 

A  rope  !   I  wish  we  patriots  had 
Such  strings  for  all  who  need  'em— 
■  What  !   hang  a  man  for  going  mad  i 
Then  farewell  British  freedom* 


2S8  NAMES  OF  LITTLE  NOTE. 

ON    OBSERVING  SOME 

NAMES  OF  LITTLE  NOTE 

RECORDED  IN  THE  BIOGRAPHIA  BRITANNICA. 

OH,  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot 
To  names  ignoble,  born  to  be  forgot  I 
In  vain,  recorded  in  historic  page, 
They  court  the  notice  of  a  future  age  : 
Those  twinkling  tiny  lustres  of  the  land 
Drop  one  by  one  from  fame's  neglecting  hand  1 
Lethaean  gulfs  receive  them  as  they  fall, 
And  dark  oblivion  soon  absorbs  them  all. 

So  when  a  child,  as  playful  children  use. 
Has  burnt  to  tinder  a  stale  last  year's  news, 
The  flame  extinct,  he  views  the  roving  fire—-- 
There  goes  my  lady,  and  there  goes  the  squire, 
There  goes  the  parson,  oh  !  illustrious  spark. 
And  there,  scarce  less  illustrious,  goes  the  clerk  ! 


\ 


\ 


REPORT 

©F  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE  NOT  TO  BE  FOUND     IN     ANY 

OF  THE  BOOKS* 

I. 

BETWEEN  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose— 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belongs 
II. 

So  tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning ;. 


REPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE.      239 

While  chief  baron  Ear  set  to  balance  the  laws. 
So  fam'd  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 
III. 

In  behalf  of  the  Nose,  it  will  quickly  appear. 

And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find. 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 

IV. 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court— 
Your    lordship   observes     they  are  made  with  a 
straddle. 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  nose  is  ;  in  short, 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

V. 

Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose  I 
Pray  who  would,   or   who   could,   wear  spectacles 
then  ? 

VI. 

On  the  whole,  it  appears — and  my  argument  showSf 
With  a  reasqning  the  court  will  never  condemn. 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

VII. 

Then,  shifting  his  side,  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how) 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes  : 

But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know. 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 


240       BURNING  LORD  MANSFIELD*S  LIBRARY^ 

VI  y. 

So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — > 

That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  day-light  or  candle-light — Eyes  should  be  shut ! 


ON   THE   BURNING  OF 

LORD  MANSFIELD^S  LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER    WITH  HIS   MSS. 

BY   THE  MOB,   IN   THE    MONTH  OF  JUNE,    1780- 
1. 

SO  then — the  Vandals  of  our  isle, 

Sworn  foes  to  sense  and  law, 
Have  burnt  to  dust  a  nobler  pile 

Than  ever  Roman  saw  ! 
II. 
And  Murray  sighs  o'er  Pope  and  Swift, 

And  many  a  treasure  more, 
The  well-judgM  purchase  and  the  gift 

That  grac'dhis  lettered  store, 
III. 
T/:>eir  pages  mangled,  burnt  and  torn, 

The  loss  was  f}is  alone  ; 
But  ages  yet  to  come  shall  mourn 

The  burning  of  his  own. 


i 


ON  THE  SAME. 

I. 

WHEN  wit  and  genius  meet  their  doom 
In  all-devouring  flame, 


U?P0CRI8Y  DETECTED*  241 

They  tell  us  of  the  fate  of  Rome, 

And  bid  us  fear  the  same. 
II. 
O'er  Murray's  loss  the  muses  wept, 

They  felt  the  rude  alarm, 
Yet  bless'd  the  guardian  care  that  kept 

His  sacred  head  from  harm. 
in. 
There  memory,  like  the  bee  that's  fed 

From  Florals  balmy  store, 
The  quintessence  df  all  he  read 

Had  treasured  up  before. 

IV. 

The  lawless  herd  with  fury  blind, 

Have  done  him  cruel  wrong  ; 
The  flowers  are  gone  ;  but  still  we  find 

The  honey  on  his  tongue. 


THE 

LOVE  OF  THE  WORLD  REPROVED ; 

OR, 

HYPOCRISY  DETECTED.* 

THUS  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk- 
Good  mussulman  abstain  from  pork  ; 


*  It  may  be  proper  to  inform  the  reader  that  this  piece  has 
already  appeared  in  print,  haviag  found  its  way,  though  with 
some  unnecessary  additions  by  an  unknown  hand,  into  the 
Leeds  Journal,  without  ths  author's  ffivity. 
VOL.  lU  W 


24^  KtPOCRISY    DETECTED. 

There  is  a  part  in  every  swine 
No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 
May  taste,  whate'cr  his  inclination, 
On  pain  of  excommunication. 
Such  Mahomet's  mysterious  charge, 
And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 
Had  he  the  sinful  part  expressed, 
They  might  vith  safety  eat  the  rest  ; 
But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 
From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarred, 
And  set  their  wit  at  work  to  find 
What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  mind. 
Much  controversy  straight  arose — 
These  choose  the  back,  the  belly  those  ; 
By  some  'tis  confidently  said 
He  m,eant  not  to  forbid  the  head  ; 
While  others  at  that  doctrine  rail, 
And  piously  prefer  the  tail. 
Thus,  conscience  freed  from  every  clog, 
Mahometans  eat  up  the  hog. 

You  laugh — 'tis  well — The  tale  applied 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'other  side. 
Renounce  the  world — ^the  preacher  cries. 
We  do— a  multitude  replies. 
While  one  as  innocent  regards 
A  snug  and  friendly  game  at  cards  ; 
And  one,  whatever  you  may  say. 
Can  see  no  evil  in  a  play  ; 
Some  love  a  concert  or  a  race ; 
And  others— shooting,  and  the  chase* 


TWE   LILY   AND  THE   ROSB.  2iS 

Revird  and  lov'd,  renounc'd  and  follow'd, 
Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the  world  is  swallow M  ; 
Each  thinks  his  neighbour  makes  too  free, 
Yet  likes  a  slice  as  well  as  he  ; 
With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeten. 
Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten. 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  ROSS, 

I. 

THE  nymph  must  lose  her  female  friend^ 

If  more  admir'd  than  she- — 
But  where  will  fierce  contention  end, 

If  flowers  can  disagree  ? 

II. 

Within  the  garden's  peaceful  scene 

Appeared  two  lovely  foes, 
Aspiring  to  the  rank  of  qaeen-^*- 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 

III. 
The  Rose  soon  redden'd  into  ragp. 

And,  svTelling  with  disdain, 
Appeal'd  to  many  a  poet'?  page 

To  prove  her  right  to  reign, 

IV. 

The  Lily's  height  bespoke  command—- 

A  fair  imperial  flower  ; 
She  seem'd  de&ign'd  for  Flora's  hand. 

The  sceptre  of  her  powef. 


244?  IDEM    LATINE  REDDITUM* 

V. 

This  civil  bickering  and  debate 

The  goddess  chanc'd  to  hear, 
And  flew  to  save,  ere  yet  too  late. 

The  pride  of  the  parterre — 
vr. 
Yours  is,  she  said,  the  nobler  hue^ 

And  yours  the  statelier  mien  ; 
A  nd  till  a  third  surpasses  you. 

Let  each  be  deem'd  a  queen. 
vii. 
Thus,  soothM  and  reconcil'd,  each  seeks 

The  fairest  British  fair  ; 
The  s«at  of  empire  is  her  cheefcsj 

They  reign  united  there. 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

I. 

HEU  inimicitiae  quoties  parit  aemula  forma, 

Quam  raro  pulchrae,  pulchra  placere  potest  ! 
Sed  fines  ultra  solitos  discordia  tendit. 

Cum  flores  ipsos  bills  et  ira  movent. 
II. 
Hortus  ubi  dulces  praebet  tacitosque  recessfii, 

Se  rap  it  in  partes  gens  animosa  duas  ; 
Hie  sibi  regales  Amaryllis  Candida  cultQ*, 

lUic  purpureo  yindicat  ©re  Rosa, 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDtTUM.  24f5 

III. 

Ira  Rosam  et  meritis  quxsita  superbia  tangunt, 
Multaqu^  ferventi  vix  cohibenda  sinu, 

Dum  sibi  fautomm  ciet  undique  nomina  vatum, 
Jusque  suum,  multo  carmine  fulta,  probat. 

IV. 

Altior  emicat  ilia,  et  celso  vertice  nutat, 

Ceil  flores  inter  non  habitura  parem, 
Fastiditque  alios,  et  nata  videtur  in  usus 

Imperii,  sceptrum,  Flora  quod  ipsa  gerat. 

V. 

Nee  Dea  non  sensit  civilis  murmui-a  rixas, 
Cui  curse  est  pictas  pandere  ruris  opes. 

Deliciasque  suas  nunquam  non  prompta  tueri, 
Dum  licet  et  locus  est,  ut  tueatur,  adest, 

VI. 

Et  tibi  forma  datur  procerior  omnibus,  inquit, 
Ettibi,  principibus  qui  solet  esse,  color, 

Et  donee  vincat  quaedam  formosior  ambas, 
Et  tibi  reginse  nomen,  et  esto  tibi. 

TII. 

His  ubi  sedatus  furor  est,  petit  utraque  nympham, 
Qualcm  inter  Veneres  Anglia  sola  parit  ; 

Hanc  penes  imperium  est,  nihil  optant  amplius,  Kujus 
Regnant  in  nitidis,  et  sine  lite,  geais. 


246  NIGHTINGALE  AN9  GLCW-WO&M. 

TUS 

NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOW-WORM. 

A  NIGHTINGALE,  that  aU  day  long 
Had  cheer'd  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  v^hen  eventide  was  ended. 
Began  to  feel,  as  well  he  mighty 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  ; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around. 
He  spied,  far  oflF,  upon  th«  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  Glow-Worm  by  his  spark  ; 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangu'd  him  thus,  right  eloquent— 

Did  you  admire  my  lamp,  quoth  he, 
As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy. 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong. 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song ; 
For  ^twas  the  self-same  power  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine  ; 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night. 
The  eongster  heard  his  short  oration. 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells. 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 


▼OTUM*  347 

Henee  jarring  sectaries  may  learR 
Their  real  interest  to  discern  ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brother. 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other  ; 
But  sing  and  shine  by  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night  is  spent;. 
Respecting  in  each  other^s  case 
The  gifts,  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  name 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim  ; 
Peace,  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps  and  him  that  flies. 


VOTUM. 

G  MATUTINI  rores,  auraeque  salubres, 
O  nemora,  et  laetse  rivis  felicibus  herbx, 
Graminei  coUes,  et  amxnse  in  vallibus  umbrae  i 
Fata  modo  dederint  quas  olim  in  rure  paterno 
Delicias,  procul  arte,  procul  formidine,  novi, 
Quam  vellum  ignotus,  quod  mens  mea  semper  avebat, 
Ante  larum  proprkim  placidam  expectare  senectam, 
Turn  demum,  exactis  non  infeliciter  annis, 
Sortiri  taciturn  lapidem,  aut  sub  cespite  condi ! 


248  f  INE-APPLS  AND  BEE. 

ON  A  GOLDFINCH 

STARVED  TO  DEATH   IN   HIS  CAGE. 

TIME  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare. 

My  drink  the  morning  dew  ; 
T  perch 'd  at  will  on  every  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 

My  strains  forever  new. 

II. 
But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain. 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain. 

And  of  a  transient  date  ; 
For,  caught  and  cag'd,  and  starvM  to  death. 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  pass'd  the  wiry  grate. 
III. 
Thanks,  gently  swain,  for  all  my  woe§. 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  every  ill  ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express  ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less. 

Had  been  your  prisoner  still. 


THE  PINE-APPLE  AND  THE  BEE, 

THE  Pine-Apples,  in  triple  row. 
Were  basking  hot,  and  all  in  blow  ; 


PINE-APFLE  AKB  BE£«  Si0 

A  Bee  of  most  discerning  taste 
Perceiv'd  the  fragrance  as  he  pass'd  ; 
On  eager  wing  the  spoiler  came, 
And  search'd  for  crannies  in  the  frame, 
Urg'd  his  attempt  on  every  side. 
To  every  pane  his  trunk  applied  ; 
But  still  in  vain,  the  frame  was  tight^ 
And  only  pervious  to  the  light  ; 
Thus  having  wasted  half  the  day^ 
He  trimm'd  his  flight  another  way. 

Methinks,  I  said,  in  thee  I  find 

The  sin  and  madness  of  mankind. 

To  joys  forbidden  man  aspires, 

Consumes  his  soul  with  vain  desires  ; 

Folly  the  spring  of  his  pursuit. 

And  disappointment  all  the  fruit. 

While  Cynthio  ogles  as  she  passe* 

The  nymph  between  two  chariot  glassei^ 

She  is  the  Pine-Apple,  and  he 

The  silly  unsuccessful  Bee, 

The  maid,  who  views  with  pensive  air 

The  show  glass  fraught  with  glittering  ware^ 

Sees  watches,  bracelets^  rings,  and  lockets. 

But  sighs  at  thought  of  empty  pockets  ; 

Like  thine,  her  appetite  is  keen, 

But  ah,  the  cruel  glass  between  ! 

Our  dear  delights  are  often  such, 
Expos'd  to  view,  but  not  to  touch  ; 
The  sight  our  foolish  heart  inflames, 
Wc  long  for  Pine- Applet  in  fraraei ; 


250  HORACE.       BOOK   II,       ODE  X. 

With  hopeless  wish  one  looks  and  lingers 
One  breaks  the  glass,  and  cuts  his  fingers 
But  they  whom  truth  and  wisdom  lead, 
Can  gather  honey  from  a  weed. 


HORACE.  BOOK  II.  ODE  X. 

I. 

RECEIVE,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teacB, 
So  shalt  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  fortune's  power  ; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep. 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treacherous  shore, 
II. 
He,  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean. 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Imbittering  all  his  state. 

IIK 

The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  power 
Of  wintry  blasts  ;    the  loftiest  toweu 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground  ; 
The  bolts,  that  spare  the  mountain's  sid?, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide. 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 


JL  REFLECTION.  S£I 

IV* 

The  well  inform'd  philosopher 
Rejoices  "udth  a  wholesome  fear, 

And  hopes,  in  spite  of  pain  ; 
If  winter  bellow  from  the  north, 
Soon  the  sweet  spring  comes  dancing  forth, 

x^nd  nature  laughs  again. 

V. 

What  if  thine  heaven  be  overcast, 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last  ; 

Expect  a  brighter  sky. 
The  God  that  strings  the  silver  bow 
Awakes  sometimes  the  muses  too. 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 

VI. 

If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen  : 
But  oh  !  if  fortune  fill  thy  sail 
tVith  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvas  in. 


A  REFLECTION 

ON     THE     FOREGOING,  ODE. 

AND  Is  this  all  ?  Can  reason  do  no  more 
Than  bid  me  shun  the  deep  and  dread  the  shore  ? 
Sweet  moralist  I   afloat  on  life's  rough  sea, 
The  Chriftian  has  an  art  unknown  to  thee  : 


252  THt  GLOW-WORM. 

He  holds  no  parley  with  unmanly  fears ; 
Where  duty  bids  he  confidently  steers. 
Faces  a  thousand  dangers  at  her  call, 
And,  trusting  in  his  God,  surmounts  tliem  alL 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


J.     THF  GLOW-WORM. 
1. 

BENEATH  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream, 

A  worm  is  known  to  stray  ; 
That  shows  by  night  a  lucid  beam, 

Which  disappears  by  day. 
11. 
Disputes  have  been,  and  still  prevail, 

From  whence  his  rays  proceed  ; 
Some  give  that  honour  to  his  taii, 

And  others  to  his  head, 
III. 
But  this  is  sure — the  hand  of  might. 

That  kindles  up  the  skies, 
Gives  him  a  modicum  of  light 

Proportioned  to  his  size. 

IV. 

Perhaps  indulgent  nature  mea^t. 

By  such  a  lamp  beetow'd, 
To  bid  the  traveller,  a*  he  went, 

Be  careful  where  he  trod : 


THE  JACKDAW,  2S8 


Nor  crush  a  worm,  whose  useful  light 

Might  serve,  however  small, 
To  show  a  stumbHng  stone  by  night, 
And  save  him  from  a  fall. 

VI, 

Whatever  she  meant,  this  truth  divint 

Is  legible  and  plain, 
^Tis  power  almighty  bids  him  shine, 

Nor  bids  him  shine  in  vain. 

VII. 

Ye  proud  and  wealthy,  let  this  theme 
Teach  humbler  thoughts  to  youj 

Since  such  a  reptile  has  its  gem. 
And  boasts  its  splendour  too-. 


n.    THE  JACKDAW. 


THERE  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 

Might  be  suppos'd  a  crow ; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church. 
Where,  bishop-like,  he  finds  a  perch, 

And  dormitory  too. 

II. 
Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate. 
That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  points  blows  the  weatheh 
Vol,  II.  X 


254 


THE    JACKDAW. 


Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
^Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 
He  chooses  it  the  rather, 

III. 
Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-show 
That  occupy  mankind  belo^v. 

Secure,  and  at  his  ease. 

IV. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muse$ 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises. 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No  ;  not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate. 

Or  troubles  it  at  alL 

V. 

He  sees,  that  this  great  roundabout— 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law. 
Its  customs  and  its  businesses. 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his. 

And  says — what  says  he  ?— Caw, 
vi# 
Thrice  happy  bird !   I  too  have  seep 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men  ; 

And,  wck  of  having  seen  *era^ 


THE    CRICKBT.  255 


Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 

Yov  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 

And  such  a  head  between  'em. 


III.     THE  CRICKET- 


LITTLE  inmate,  full  of  mirtk, 
Chii-ping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode. 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet  ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 
II. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  exprest, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest  ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout. 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire. 
Thou  hast  all  thine  heart's  desire. 

III. 
Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  br 
Form'd  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  trt  ; 


250  THE    PARROT. 

Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song, 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long^ 
Unimpaired  and  shrill  and  clear. 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

IT. 

Neither  night,  nor  dawn  of  day, 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  play  : 
Sing  then — and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man. 
Wretched  man,  whose  years  are  spen^ 
In  repining  discontent. 
Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be. 
Half  a  span,  compared  with  thee. 


IV.    THE  PARROT. 

I. 

IN  painted  plumes  superbly  drest, 
A  native  of  the  gorgeous  east. 

By  many  a  billow  tost  ; 
Poll  gains  at  length  the  British  shore. 
Part  of  the  captain's  precious  store — 

A  present  to  his  toast. 

II. 
Belinda's  maids  are  soon  preferred 
To  teach  him  now  and  then  a  word, 

As  Poll  can  master  it  ; 
But  'tis  her  own  important  charge 
To  qualify  him  more  at  large, 

And  make  him  quite  a  wit. 


in. 

Sweet  Poll  I  his  doting  mistress  cries, 
Sweet  Poll  !  the  mimic  bird  replies. 

And  calls  aloud  for  sack. 
She  next  instructs  him   in  the  kiss  ; 
'Tis  ROW  a  little  one,  like  Miss^ 

And  now  a  hearty  smack. 

IT. 

At  first  he  aims  at  what  he  hears  ; 
And,  listening  close  with  both  hi^  ears, 

Just  catches  at  the  sound  ; 
Eut  soon  articulates  aloud. 
Much  to  th'  amusement  of  the  crowd. 

And  stuns  the  neighbours  round. 

V, 

A  querulous  old  woman's  voice 
His  humorous  talent  next  employs- 
He  scolds,  and  gives  the  lie. 
And  now  he  sings,  and  now  is  sick- 
Here  Sally,  Susan,  come,  come  quick  j 
Poor  Poll  is  Uke  to  die  ! 

VI. 

Belinda  and  her  bird  !   'tis  rare 

To  meet  v  ith  such  a  well-match'd  pair, 

The  language  and  the  tone, 
Each  character  in  every  part 
Sustained  with  so  much  grace  and  ivft^ 

And  both  ia  unison, 
%  2 


25S  THE   SHRUBBjBRt. 

VII. 

When  children  first  begin  to  spell, 
And  stammer  out  a  syllable. 

We  think  them  tedious  creatures  ; 
But  difficulties  soon  abate. 
When  birds  are  to  be  taught  to  prate, 

And  women  are  the  teachers. 


THE  SHRUBBERY. 

■WRITTEN  IN  A  TIME  OF  AFFLICTION* 
I. 

OH,  hap'py  shades — to  me  unblest  I 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me  ! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree  I 
II. 
This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pinc^ 

Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze. 
Might  sooth  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine. 

And  please,  if  any  thing  could  pleascr 

ill. 
But  fix'd  unalterable  care 

Foregoes  not  what  ske  feels  within. 
Shows  the  same  sadness  every  where, 

And  slights  the  season  and  the  scent . 

IT. 

For  all  that  pleas'd  in  wood  or  lawn. 

While  pe^e  pog^sess'd  tli^se  siUnt  bovvers^ 


MUTUAL  FORBfiAftANC»^  25f ' 

Her  animating   smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  power«% 

V. 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 

This  moss-grown  alley,  musing,  slow 
T-hey  seek,  like  me,  the  secret  shade. 

But  not,  like  me,  no  nourish  woe  I 

VJ. 

Me  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  ; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past. 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come* 


MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE 

NECESSARY  TO    THE   HAPPINESS    OF   THE    MARRIED 
STATE. 

THE  lady  thus  addressed  lier  spouse--^. 
What  a  mere  dungeon  is  this  house  ! 
By  no  means  large  enough ;  and  was  it. 
Yet  this  dull  room,  and  that  dark  closet— 
Those  hangings,  with  their  worn-out  gracea. 
Long  beards,  long  noses,  and  pale  facea-*- 
Are  such  an  antiquated  scene, 
They  overwhelm  me  with  the  §pleen  ! 
Sir  Humphrey,  shooting  in  the  dark, 
Makes  answer  quite  beside  the  mark  : 
No  doubt,  my  dear,  I  bade  him  come, 
Engaged  myself  to  be  at  home. 
And  shall  expect  him  at  the  door 
Precisely  when  the  dock  strikes  foaif. 


SS9  UUTVAL  VOKBElflLAHCE. 

You  are  so  deaf,  the  lady  cri«d, 
(And  rais'd  her  voice,  and  frown'd  beside) 
You  are  so  sadly  deaf,  my  dear, 
What  shall  I  do  to  niake  you  hear  i 

Dismiss  poor  Harry  I  he  replies  ; 
Some  people  are  raore  nice  than  wise— 
For  one  slight  trespass  all  this  stir  i 
What  if  he  did  ride  whip  and  spur, 
^Twas  but  a  mile — your  favorite  horse 
Will  never  look  one  hair  the  worse. 

Well,  I  protest,  'tis  past  all  bearing- 
Child  !   I  am  rather  hard  of  hearing- 
Yes,  truly— -one  must  scream  and  bawl- 
tell  you,  you  can't  hear  at  all  1 
Then,  with  a  voice  exceeding  low, 
No  matter  if  you  hear  or  no» 

Alas !  and  is  domestic  strife, 
That  sorest  ill  of  human  life, 
A  plague  so  little  to  be  fear'dj 
As  to  be  wantonly  incurred. 
To  gratify  a  fretful  passion. 
On  every  trivial  provocation  ? 
The  kindest  and  the  happiest  pair 
Will  find  occasion  to  forbear  ; 
And  something,  every  day  they  lire, 
To  pity,  and,  perhaps,  forgive. 
But  if  infirmities  that  fall 
In  coramDB  to  the  lot  of  all— 


THE  WINTEH  NOSEGAY.  261 

A  blemish  or  a  sense  impaired-*— 
Are  crimes  so  little  to  be  spar'd. 
Then  farewel  all  that  must  create 
The  comfort  of  the  wedded  state  ; 
Instead  of  harmony,  'tis  jar 
And  tumult,  and  intestine  war. 

The  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stag*^ 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age. 
Preserved  by  virtue  from  declension. 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention  ; 
But  lives,  when  that  exterior  grace 
Which  first  inspired  the  flame  decays. 
Tis  gentle,  delicate,  and  kind. 
To  faults  compassionate  or  bhnd. 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure  : 
But  angry,  coarse,  and  harsh  expression 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession  ; 
Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his. 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 


THE  WINTER  NOSEGAY. 

I. 

WHAT   nature,  alas  !  has  denied 
To  the  delicate  growth  of  our  isle, 

Art  has  in  measure  supplied, 

And  winter  is  deckM  with  a  smile. 

See,  Mary,  what  beauties  I  bring 
From  the  shelter  of  that  sunny  shed. 


262  TO  THE  KEY.   MR,  NEWTON. 

Where  the  flowers  have  the  charms  of  the  spring, 

Though  abroad  they  are  frozen  and  dead. 
II. 
'Tis  a  bower  of  Arcadian  sweets, 

Where  Flora  is  still  in  her  prime^ 
A  fortress,  to  which  she  retreats 

From  the  cruel  assaults  of  the  climeir 
While  earth  wears  a  mantle  of  snow. 

These  pinks  are  as  fresh  and  as  gay 
As  the  fairest  and  sweetest  that  blow 

On  the  beautiful  bosom  of  May, 

Hi. 

See  how  they  have  safely  survived 

The  frowns  of  a  sky  so  severe  ; 
Such  Mary's  true  love,  that  has  liv'd 

Through  many  a  turbulent  year. 
The  charms  of  the  late  blowing  rose 

Seem  grac'd  with  a  livelier  hue, 
And  the  winter  of  sorrow  best  shows 

The  truth  of  a  friend  such  as  you. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON. 

AN  INVITATIOJJ  INTO  THE  COUNTRY. 
I. 

THE  swallows  in  their  torpid  state 

Compose  their  useless  wing. 
And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 

The  call  of  early  spring. 


TO  THE  REV.  MR,  NEWTON.  26S^ 

The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the  stream, 

The  wildest  wind  that  blows. 
Are  neither  felt  nor  fear*d  by  them. 

Secure  of  their  repose. 

III. 
But  man,  all  feeling  and  awake. 

The  gloomy  scene  surveys  ; 
With  present  ills  his  heart   must  ache. 

And  pant  for  brighter  days. 

IV. 

Old  winter,  halting  o'er  the'mead. 

Bids  me  and  Mary  mourn  ; 
But  lovely  spring  peeps  o'er  his  head. 

And  w^hispers  your  return.. 
y. 
Then  April,  with  her  sister  May, 

Shall  chase  him  from  the  bowers. 
And  weave  fresh  garlands  every  day, 

To  crown  the  smiHng  hours. 

VI. 

And,  if  a  tear,  that  speaks  regret 

Of  happier  times,  appear, 
A  glimpse  of  joy,  that  we  have  met, 

Shall  shine,  jaad  dry  the  tear. 


26* 


SOAOICIA. 


TRANSLATION   OF    PRIOr's 

CHLOE  AND  EUPHELIA. 

I. 

MERCATOR,  vigiles  oculos  ut  fallere  possit. 

Nomine  sub  ticto  trans  mare  mittit  opes  ; 
Lene  sonat  liquidumque  meis  Euphelia  chordis, 

Sed  solam  exoptant  te,  mea  vota,  Chloe. 
II. 
Ad  speculum  ornabat  nitidos  Euphelia  crines. 

Cum  dixit  mea  lux,  heus,  cane,  sume  lyram. 
Namque  lyram  juxta  positam  cum  carmine  vidit, 

Suave  quidem  carmen  dulcisonamque  lyram. 
III. 
Fila  lyrae  vocemque  paro,  suspiria  surgunt, 

Et  miscent  numeris  murmui*a  maesta  meis, 
Dumque  tuae    memoro  laudes,  Euphelia,  formscj 

Tota  anima  interea  pendet  ab  ore  Chloes, 

IV. 

Subrubet  ilia  pudore,  et  contrahit  altera  frontem> 
Me  torquet  mea  mens  conscia,  psallo,  tremo  ; 

Atque  Cupidinea  dixit  Dea  cincta  corona, 
Heu  !  fallendi  artem  quam  didicere  parum. 


BOADICEA. 

AN   ODE. 
I. 

WHEN  the  British  wamor  queen^ 
Bleeding  from  the  Ron^an  rods, 


B6ADICIA. 

Sought  with  an  indignant  mein, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 
II. 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief ; 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  gi  ief. 

ui. 

Princess  !   if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

^Tis  because  resentment  ties 

All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

17. 

Kome  shall  perish--write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt ; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorr'd, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

V. 

Rome,  for  em.pire  far  renownM, 
Tra'-nples  on  a  thousand  states; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground— i 
Hark  !    the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates  i 
vr. 

Other  Romans  shall  arise, 

Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  v.'in  the  prize- 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

VOL.   11,  Y 


ite? 


^66  HIR0I9M« 

VI!. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 

From  the  forests  of  our  land, 
Arm'd  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 

Shall  a  wider  world  command* 
viu. 
Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway, 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew. 

None  invincible  as  they. 

IX. 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending,  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

X. 

She,  wnth  all  a  monarch's  pride. 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  ; 

Rush'd  to  battle,  fought  and  died  ; 
Dying,  hurl'd  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due  i 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed. 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  yout 


HEROISM. 

THERE  was  a  time  when  Etna's  silent  fire        .  T 
Slept  unperceiv'd,  the  mountain  yet  entire  ; 
When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 
She  tower'd  a  cloud-capt  pyramid  of  snow. 


HEROISM*  267 

No  thunders  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 
The  blooming  groves  that  girdled  her  around. 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines, 
(Unfelt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines) 
The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vain  assur'd. 
In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matur*d. 
When  on  a  day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 
A  conflagration  labouring  in  her  womb. 
She  teem'd  and  heav*d  with  an  infernal  birth, 
That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 
Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapours  rise, 
And  hang  their  horrors  in  the  neighb'ring  skies. 
While  through  the  Stygian  vale  that  blots  the  day* 
In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 
But,  oh  \  what  muse,  and  in  what  povvera  of  song, 
Gan  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along  ? 
Havcc  and  devastation  in  the  van. 
It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man- 
Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests  dissppear, 
And  all  the  charms  of  a  Sicilian  year. 

Revolving  seasons,  fruitless  as  they  pass, 
See  it  an  uninformed  and  idle  mass : 
Without  a  soil  i*  invite  the  tiller's  care, 
Or  blade  that  might  redeem  it  from  despair. 
Yet  time  at  length  (what  will  not  time  achieve  ?) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
Oh,  bliss  precarious,  and  unsafe  retreats, 
Oh  charming  paradise  of  short-liv'd  sweets  ! 


^es 


HKROI-SM-. 


The  self-same  gale  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound  ; 
Again  the  mountain  feels  th'  imprisoned  foe, 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  monarchs,  whom  the  lure  ofhonour  draw*, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause, 
Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence-^- 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretence  ; 
Behold  in  -Etna's  emblematic  fires 
The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  pride  inspires  ! 

Fast  by  the  stream  that  bounds  your  just  domain,. 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne, 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbors',  and  their  own. 
Ill-fated  race  !   how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime>  vicinity  to  you  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad^ 
Through  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destin'd  road  ; 
At  every  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread  !' 
Earth  seems  a  gai-den  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness. 
Famine,  and  pestilence,  her  first-born  son,. 
Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun  ; 
And,  echoing  praises  such  as  fiends  might  earn,, 
And  folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return  ; 
A  calm  succeeds  ;   but  plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heartfelt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 


^  H£KOISM.  26$ 

And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  sho^ 
What  scourges  are  the  gods^that  rule  belovr. 

Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degreei, 
(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease) 
Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 
Gleans  up  the  refuse  of  the  general  spoil, 
Rebuilds  the  towers  that  smok'd  upon  the  plain, 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  again. 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqueror's  part  ; 
And  the  sad  lesson  must  be  learn'd  once  more. 
That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 

What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laurel 'd  heroes  say — 
But  iEtnas  of  the  suffering  world  ye  sway  ? 
Sweet  nature,  stripped  of  her  embroidered  robe, 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe  ; 
And  stands  a  witness  at  truth's  awful  bar, 
To  prove  you,  there,  destroyers  as  ye  are. 
Oh,  place  me  in  some  heaven-protected  isle. 
Where  peace,  and  equity,  and  freedom  smile  ; 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood. 
No  crested  warrior  dips  his  plume  in  blood; 
Where  power  secures  what  industry  has  won  ; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone  ; 
A  land  that  distant  tyrants  haste  in  vain, 
In  Britain's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign  ! 
Y  2 


1270      POET,  OYSTER,  ANS  SIKSITlVE    PLA^T. 

THE  POET,    THE    OYSTER,    AND  SEN. 
SITIVE  PLANT. 

AN  Oyster,  cast  upon  the  shore, 
Was  heard,  though  never  heard  before. 
Complaining  in  a  speech  well  worded. 
And  worthy  thus  to  be  recorded*— 

Ah,  hapless  wretch,  condemn'd  to  dw^'U 
Forever  in  my  native  shell  ; 
Ordain'd  to  move  when  others  please. 
Not  for  my  own  content  or  ease  ; 
But  toss'd  and  buffetted  about. 
Now  in  the  water,  and  now  out, 
^Twere  better  to  be  born  a  stone. 
Of  ruder  shape,  and  feeling  none» 
Than  with  a  tenderness  like  mine. 
And  sensibilities  so  Sne  ! 
I  envy  that  unfeeling  shrub. 
Fast  rooted  against  every  rub. 
The  plant  he  meant  grew  not  far  off. 
And  felt  the  sneer  with  scorn  enough  ; 
Was  hurt,  disgusted,  mortified. 
And  with  asperity  repUed. 

When,  cry  the  botanists — and  stare — 
Did  plants  eall'd  sensitive  grow  there  ? 
No  matter  when — a  poet's  muse  is 
To  make  them  grow  just  where  she  chooses. 


POOT,  OYSTER,  AND  SENSlTrtE   f  LANT.        271 

You,  shapeless  nothing  in  a  dish— i 
You,  that  are  but  almost  a  fish— i 
I  scorn  your  coarse  insinuation, 
And  have  most  plentiful  OGcasioii 
To  wish  myself  the  rock  I  view, 
Or  such  another  dolt  as  you  : 
For  many  a  grave  and  learned  clerk. 
And  many  a  gay  unlettered  spark, 
With  curious  touch  examines  me. 
If  I  can  feel  as  well  as  he  ; 
And,  when  I  bend,  retire  and  shrink. 
Says— Well,  'tis  more  than  one  would  think  t 
Thus  life  is  spent  (oh,  fie  upon't!) 
la  being  touch' d,  aad  ciying — ^Don't  ! 

A  Poet,  in  his  evening  walk. 
Overheard  and  check'd  this  idle  talk. 
And  your  fine  sense,  he  said,  and  yours^ 
Whatever  evil  it  endures, 
Deserves  not,  if  so  soon  offended. 
Much  to  be  pitied  or  commended. 
Disputes,  though  short,  are  far  too  long. 
Where  both  ahke  are  in  the  wrong  ; 
Your  feelings,  in  their  full  amount. 
Are  iall  upon  your  own  account. 

You,  in  your  grotto-work  enclosed. 
Complain  of  being4:hus  exposed  ; 
Yet  nothing  feel  in  that  rough  coaty 
Save  when  the  knife  is  at  your  throaty 
Wherever  driven  by  wind  or  tide. 
Exempt  from  every  ill  beside. 


572  ON  THE  RECEIPT  OP 

And,  as  for  you,  my  Lady  Squeamish, 
Who  reckon  every  touch  a  blemish, 
If  all  the  plants  that  can  be  found 
Embellishing  the  scene  around 
Should  droop  and  wither  where  they  grow. 
You  would  not  feel  at  all — not  you* 
The  noblest  minds  their  virtue  prove 
By  pity,  sympathy  and  love  ; 
These,  these  are  feelings  truly  fine, 
And  prove  their  owner  half  divine. 

His  censure  reach'd  them  as  he  dealt  it. 
And  each  by  shrinking  shew'd  he  felt  it. 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OV 

MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

OUT  OF  NORFOLK. 

I 
THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN  ANN  BODHAM* 

OH  that  those  lips  had  language  !   Life  has  paa»*d 

With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smiles  I  see, 

The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solac'd  me  ; 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 

•<  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  !  *^ 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 

(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 

The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 

To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 


WY    mother's  PieTU«Rfi.  S73t' 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear. 
Oh  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bidd^st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 
I  will  obey,  not  willingly  aloiie, 
Bat  gladly,  as  the  precept  &re  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief-^ 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she* 

My  mother  r  when  I  learn*d  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  i 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o*er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unseen,  a  kiss  ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah  that  maternal  smile  !   k  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  tliat  bore  thee  slow  away, 
A  ad,  turning  from  my  nurs*ry  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ? — it  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewels  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  sound  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens  griev'd  themselves  at  my  concern. 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  a  quick  retura. 
What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  belie v'd, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceiv'd  ; 


i 


1T#  0»  tHi  HfECEIft  OP 

By  disappointment  every  day  beguil*d, 
Dupe  of  io-morroiu  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went> 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  leani'd  at  last  submissicp  to  my  lot. 
But,  though  I  less  deplor'd  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nurs'ry  floor  ; 
And  where  the  gard'ner  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  pubhc  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capt, 
*Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short  liv'd  possession  !  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effac'd 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  might^st  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid  ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum  : 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd, 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd  : 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes  ; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still,  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 


MT    mother's   riCTTIliE  ^9 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  mc  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may  ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorn'd  in  heaven,  though  little*  notic'd  here, 

Cogld  time,  his  flight  revers'd,  restore  the  hours 
When  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prickM  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Would*st  softly  speak^  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile) 
Gould  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  ? 
1  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desir'd,  perhaps  I  might.— 
But  no— what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 
So  little  to  be  lov'd,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requrte  thee,  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coaH 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  .cross'd) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven 'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  ipripregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reachM  the  shore 
^  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,"* 

*  Garth. 


2V6  CN  THE  &ECFIPT  OF,  ftc. 

And  thy  lovM  consort  on  the  dangerous  tid« 
Of  Hfe,  Icng  since,  h*is  anchci'd  at  thy  side* 
Eut  n:e,  sca>ce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
jAhvays  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd*^ 
Mc  liC^^ hpg  winds  drive  devious,  tempest  toss'd. 
Sails  iipt,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
Ar.d  cay  by  c'ay  rcme  current's  thwarting  forc^ 
Sets  n  e  ncre  dirtant  frcm  a  prosperous  course, 
I  ut  (;h,  tie  thought  tha*,  thou  art  safe,  and  he  I 
Tlat  thought  is  joy,   arrive  vs hat  may  to  me. 
My  boapt  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
pre  m  loins  enthron  d,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  far  m.y  picud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  pabb'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewel — time,  unrevok'd,  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  liv'd  my  childhood  o'er  again  ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine^ 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic   shew  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  power  to  sooth  me  lefi» 


END  OF  VOL.   II. 


« 


»'* 


«?s 


:-4?^vrv 


^0^&mm^^^M. 


